


The Ninth Sanctum

by ShayneScribbler



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Child Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied Torture, Jack just can't win in any verse, M/M, Male Slash, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Sandy being a sass, Torture, Violence, sex between different species, shamelessly abusing the epic fantasy genre, there might be silliness and feels?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-25 07:29:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 50,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShayneScribbler/pseuds/ShayneScribbler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pitch Black has awoken from his prison in the Dreaming and is bringing a new Darkening upon the world. The Man in the Moon, Archmage of the Nine Sanctums has called upon Sand Mage and Dreamwalker Sanderson to bring down the threat before it can take hold, with the help and council of the Fae Queen, Toothiana. Jack Frost is a failed Winter Mage who just can't seem to get a good night's sleep. Or stay out of the way of the grumpy Pooka warrior he keeps bumping into.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One: An Awakening

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for a prompt on the rotg kink meme, which can be found here: http://rotg-kink.dreamwidth.org/1511.html?thread=1139431#cmt1139431  
> Totally based off the movie!verse...and this fic might also shamelessly attempt to put on Robert Jordan and Tolkien-esque clothes. Like a wishful little child.

‘There are dark places in all worlds, where shadows creep further than they should and unnameable things sleep. Perhaps it is all one shadow, leaching into our pockets of light, making even the boldest and bravest twitch in the depths of the night and promise themselves that they are safe in their beds. And just as all worlds have shadows, so too do they have cycles. What once was will always once be again, until the balances are eclipsed and all fades away.’

This, the Man in the Moon, Archmage of the Nine Sanctums, thought to himself, this was the only truth in any world. He shifted minutely in his otherwise motionless midnight vigil atop the glowing white tower of the Nine Sanctums of Magi, watching the world sleep below him. Most of the world. Eyes pale as the full moon hovering impossibly close to the tower saw beyond the city quiet at its feet, beyond the slowly shimmering waters of the great river Nithes that rushed past on its course to the sea. In the dark places of this world something terrible was stirring, another cycle to be repeated and hopefully put to rest for another Age. 

The Man in the Moon could scarcely remember the last cycle, the centuries erased even the strongest of memories and most of his old knowledge had faded, just as his own name had faded from the world and from himself. But there was one who walked the earth who would not have so easily forgotten, one who had been waiting for this awakening for three hundred years. He would call upon the High Sand Mage in the morning and have him summon Dreamwalker Sanderson. There was much to be discussed and little time for talking.

 

 

Shadows shifted in a place removed and yet part of the whole. Around it small lights winked in and out of existence, twinkling like stars. Yet the shadows remained apart, resistant to these pockets of brightness. Within their depths a terrible pair of eyes – both the yellow of bloated and rotting flesh and the darkness of a moonless night – blinked open, breaking away from an otherwise eternal slumber. A slow smile pulled thin, cracking lips away from razor teeth.

A pale hand extended to cup around one of the delicate little lights, a mind at rest in the Dreaming while the mortal body slept. The easy sleep of one undisturbed by the dark thoughts and fears of waking life. Fingers curled into a fist around the little ball of radiance, crushing until no light peeked through.

 

 

In the waking world a Journeyman Magi was pulled from his sleep with a strangled cry, shivers wracking his thin frame even as the warm breeze of early summer sifted through his window. The young man scrambled to pull open his curtains and sighed in relief as the bright light of the full moon poured into his room. He couldn’t recall what dream had startled him from slumber, a small blessing. Perhaps sleep would return this night.

## Chapter One

Jack Overland Frost groaned in misery as the first rays of morning sun crawled through the open window beside him. His head throbbed somewhere deep within, proof that he had fallen asleep last night without closing the curtains. Sleeping under direct moonlight was never a good idea, not for him. It always resulted in strange dreams and left him exhausted and grumpy come morning.

Shaking off the last vestiges of the dream - _a dark man chasing him and several other murky figures through a field of giant seeded dandelions, each one screaming down at him with terrible yellow eyes before being jostled into a hurricane of white fuzz, roots snapping out, trying to grasp at his burning limbs_ \- Jack heaved himself up and stumbled over to the cracked wash basin and rusty chamber pot of the cheap inn room he’d rented for the night. 

A quick splash of cool water to his face cleared the last of his headache and he glanced up at himself in the dirty mirror. His hair was a mess of mottled brown and white and he had no doubt that he would be completely white-haired before he was twenty. Jack only had vague memories of his life before being taken to the tower of the Nine Sanctums for mage training. Perhaps his father or mother had been prematurely gray or maybe it was just a side effect of his broken magic.

Sighing and pushing aside old hurts, Jack straightened his worn clothes – a simple shirt and pants with a ratty hooded coat – and grabbed his staff before leaving the room. He would have to scrounge up some more money today if he wanted to eat and sleep in a bed come nightfall. At his touch, the staff flared, frost spreading across the floor and snow falling unbidden from the ceiling. Jack sighed in irritation. Today was starting out marvellously.

 

 

Dreamwalker Sanderson paused on the sweeping front steps of the white tower. It had been a long time since he had stood here last, so long he had hoped it would not hurt to stand again at its base. But it did hurt. The tower had not changed in the past three hundred years and Sandy could practically feel the ghosts and memories waiting around each corner.

His soft leather boots made almost no sound as he ascended the stone steps and passed into the brightly lit entrance hall. The tower was busy, as always, with clerks scurrying between offices, young apprentices dashing between classes, and stately mages wandering with their faces hidden behind tomes of obscure spellwork. Everyone in sight wore the sweeping white robes of the Magi, bright bands of colour denoting their places in the hierarchy. Solid white for the newly apprenticed who had yet to display any specific talent. Bands of either blue, green, yellow, or red for Lowling class mages of the first four Sanctums – Blue for the Winter Mages who specialized Bindings; Green for Spring Mages, the Enchanters; Yellow for Summer Mages who brewed potions and performed rituals; and Red for Autumn Mages, responsible for Curses and Breakings. 

Interspersed in the crowd was the occasional Peer Mage come down from the upper levels of the tower. These individuals waded calmly through the throngs of people, the colours of their robes parting the sea before them. Water Mages with the blue band of the Winter Mage, but silver embroidery giving the appearance of shimmering waves and magic that enabled them to perform Changings. Air Mages with yellow bands and gold embroidered air currents to symbolize the breezes that brought them Fore-Seeings. Earth Mages with green bands, tiny jewel chips sown on to create simmering forests and mountains swept by with their newest Creatings. Even the odd Fire Mage dotted the crowd, their red banded robes covered in bronze flames flowing behind them as they muttered about new spells discovered during their Findings. 

As Sanderson stepped into the hall the din enveloped him, his plain leather clothing, bleached a light tan-orange from decades spent in the sun didn’t offer him the courtesy of easy movement. To the eyes of those around him he was naught but a commoner come to beseech a blessing from those who served the Moon. Outside the tower there was no need to wear his robes of rank – he was nothing more than a travelling hermit, finding sleep in farmers barns or fields, sometimes a bed should a kind soul offer him one. And so he no longer possessed the beautiful white and gold robes of a Sand Mage, one blessed with the power to walk the Dreaming, shaping the world and the future with their Dream Sand and doing the bidding of the Moon. Sand Magic was the highest form of magic attainable and the mages capable of it were few and far between.

Sandy pushed his way through the crowds, wishing he had grown some in the past couple centuries and decidedly _not_ wishing he still had a tall companion to force open a path. And yet the pressing crowd of robed figures brought back the memories anyway; brief flashes through his mind of himself, so young, darting through halls and laughing.

_“Hurry up!” Sandy urged breathlessly, peeling around a corner, puffs of laughter escaping his lips. A darker, taller boy snickered softly at his back.  
“Waiting on you,” came the teasing reply and Sandy rolled his eyes at the implied jab at his height._

_There was annoyed yelling behind them, the voice of one Nicholas St. North, a senior apprentice Winter Mage who was about to sit his Earth Mage exams. Sandy tugged his own Summer Mage robes up higher so his legs could take longer strides. They probably shouldn’t have cursed Nick’s study notes to shriek loudly at anyone trying to read them this close to the exams, but Kozmotis always brought out the trickster in him and the opportunity was too good to pass up._

_“In here!” Kozmotis yelled suddenly, grabbing Sandy by the back of his robes and hauling him into the main laundry shoot for the apprentice levels..._

Sandy shook himself from the memory, the sweetness and innocence of younger days that seemed like they would never end making his stomach curl in painful knots. He continued his trek through the main levels into the apprentice floors and Lowling quarters. The halls had not changed overly much, still white and pristine, except where students had added personal touches outside their residences.

“Excuse me sir, but petitioners are not allowed up here,” a politely chilly voice informed him and Sanderson turned to find a Fire Mage (newly risen to the rank if the scarcity of embroidery on his robes was anything to judge by) striding toward him, the look on his face implying his opinion of the non-Gifted.

Sandy held up a hand in greeting smiling at the man and offered him the summon scroll he had received from the High Sand Mage in a town a few days journey to the east from Manenstad, the city hat housed the tower of the Magi. The Fire Mage seemed unimpressed by the offering.

“Please sir, return to the lower levels, I will not warn you again.”

Pressing his lips together in mild irritation, wishing he could take some of the stuffing out of this man’s ego, Sandy again presented the scroll, this time letting a soft swirl of golden sand ghost around the fingers wrapped around the paper. He rolled his eyes as the mage stuttered a little. He remembered now why he had not missed this place.

 

 

Jack looked balefully at his staff as he slipped down a shadowed alleyway, avoiding the crowd that was exclaiming in horror at the frosted and wilting flowers that had been collected for the upcoming festival. He wished for the thousandth time since he had been cast from the tower that he had never developed a Gift at all. Better to be unGifted than a broken mage who couldn’t even control his pathetic Lowling magic.

With summer so close a Winter mage should have been hanging his staff up for the season, waiting for the first chill breezes of Autumn to bring his powers swirling back. Spending the summer months organizing new projects for Bindings, collecting work contracts for when he could resume his business. Taking a well deserved break. But not Jack, who heard the whispers of the Moon even though he was not a Dreamwalker and the words of the wind, though even an Air Mage would think him delusional at such claims. Jack was a failed mage and a broken person and not even the Moon would tell him why.

He would leave this town and move to the next in a couple days, before anyone started looking for Winter Mages to blame for the ruined Flower Festival preparations. He’d been in one place too long anyway and could feel the impatient itch in his limbs that always surfaced when he let himself stay sedentary too long.  
Stepping out of the alleyway and into another crowded street of the market town, Jack turned to slip a few coins out of an unsuspecting pocket when he stepped sideways into a wall. A furry wall.

“Watch it, ya dill,” an annoyed and heavily accented voice snapped.

“Sorry,” jack said sheepishly, making a face at the interrupted bit of robbery. At least whoever it was hadn’t caught him with his hand actually in someone’s purse. Jack turned to look at whomever he had bumped and paused.

“Uh,” Jack gaped at the creature before him, wondering vaguely if some poor Fae had accidentally wandered out of the Dreaming and was stuck in someone’s weird Dreamform.

“What never seen a Pooka before?” the giant, rabbit-like being snapped, adjusting the leather holster wrapped about its chest.

Jack shook his head dumbly, eyes roaming over leather armour, strange wooden weapons and the dark tattoo-like markings trailing down shoulders. The being snorted in irritation and shouldered Jack out of the way in order to continue down the street. Jack glared at the dwindling figure and rubbed at his arm where he’d been brushed aside. Whatever a Pooka was, he sure seemed to be a grumpy kind. Jack turned around to find another purse to filch, wincing and grumbling as a loud voice called back to him.

“An’ keep your hands to yourself!”


	2. Dandelion Frost

## Chapter Two

_The dandelions were screaming again, grayed figures rushing through them and sending a hurricane of white seeds swirling around Jack, sticking in his hair and eyes and nose. He brushed futilely at the seeds as they hit him and froze, ribbons and swirls of frost decorating his skin and clothes, accumulating faster than he could get rid of it. And still the big white orbs screamed down at him in words he should understand but couldn’t._

_One swooped toward him, shrieking loudly in his face before a gap in the seeds yawned wide into a black maw and consumed him. Jack struggled out of the darkness, still clawing at the frost covering his skin and clothes. Except it wasn’t frost on him. He was frost and he was slowly tearing himself apart, but couldn’t stop, hands still scraping and clawing even as he sobbed in pain._

_Suddenly there was a giant dog with dark brown fur, markings running down its back and glowing green eyes. It was on top of him, pinning his arms down and breathing in his face, the breath searing his frost-body with heat and flowers and spring mist. Then it wasn’t a dog, but a man, tall with broad shoulders and tattoos adorning his arms.  
In the next instant Jack was free of the being, falling down a black pit as overhead the giant rabbit, the Pooka creature turned away and let him fall. Fall until his delicate ice body shattered._

Jack sat up with a start and rolled out of the haystack he had buried himself in for the night to vomit the little he had had to eat the night before all over the wet grass in the predawn. Shakily pushing himself upright and running a hand through his mottled hair, Jack wished for an inn or even an abandoned barn for shelter. No matter how much he covered himself, if he slept out of doors the dreams always came. 

Once he was certain his stomach and head had settled he pushed himself to his feet. The sun was not yet up, but the greying eastern sky showed that it was only an hour or so off. No point in trying to rest and the sooner he started out, the faster he would make it to Aeriad, a city just north of the capital with a large agricultural focus and famous for its weavers. He had left the small township where he had met the Pooka three days before, deciding to head south to a larger city, where it was easier to slip through crowds and come out with heavier pockets.

The morning was delightfully cool, dew building on the grass and hanging from the leaves of trees lining the Northern Road and Jack whistled cheerfully as he wandered along, occasionally kicking the odd stone or skipping down the edge of a deep wagon rut. Nothing like the sweltering summer heat that built during the day. It was still early enough in the summer that such heat promised even hotter days to come as summer wore on. Jack grimaced at the thought and considered looking for odd jobs to supplement the income he pocketed off the streets. Maybe he could afford to rent out a small cellar, pretend he was an actual Winter Mage hunkering down for the summer in a make-shift studio of sorts.

It wasn’t a bad notion, one Jack could entertain with longing, day dreaming his way down the empty road in the early pre-dawn. Not that he expected he would actually achieve that nice of a situation. Dreaming was all fine and dandy, but Jack had learned long ago how dangerous hope was and how fragmented a person could become when hopes were dashed. He clutched his staff a little tighter, like a child holding to a special toy or blanket. Half the time he wondered why he even carried the thing when all it did was act as a channel for his magic to act up, but he could never bring himself to part with it. He was Jack Frost, failed Winter Mage and mediocre thief, and even if that wasn’t much it was all he had. And it got him by, the thieving during the warmer months and a few cheap and easy Bindings during the colder ones. A front walk that wouldn’t get covered by snow, a roof that didn’t let out heat, or maybe even just windows that didn’t leak or frost over. Spells even a child new to the Sanctums couldn’t mess up.

Mood decidedly ruined, Jack viciously kicked another rock. In the process the heel of his boot caught on the edge of a wheel rut and Jack stumbled, a ripping sound rending the quiet morning air as the first golden rays peaked over the fields and woods. The heel had ripped off right around the back and Jack made a disgusted noise, yanking off both boots and hurling them off into the brush. At least it was the start of summer.

 

 

The view from the top of the Nine Sanctums tower was something Sandy had never thought to look upon again. Yet here he was, standing beside the Archmage and the only differences that three centuries had made were the High Mages in attendance. The entire Council of the Nine had changed since Sanderson had last stood here, save for the old Treasurer, Iain, a short red-haired man wearing the green robes of an Earth Mage. He didn’t recognize any of the five High Mages, not even the High Sand Mage of his own order, his former position on the Council. Every time he looked at the High Earth Mage he was surprised by the face above the robes of station, always expecting Nicholas St. North. And when he looked at the new Commander...  
An ache speared through him as current time collided with old memories and the blonde hair and brown eyes of the existing Commander slowly melted into dark hair framing bright amber eyes, pale skin and thin lips quirked up into a sardonic little smirk. In the next second it was gone and the Man in the Moon was addressing the Council and Sandy.

“I believe our times of peace have come to an end,” the old mage intoned gravely, milky eyes staring up at the moon, barely visible in the morning sun. “There is darkness stirring in the Dreaming. I have seen it...and the Fae have confirmed it.”

Sandy felt a shiver ripple down his limbs, anticipation and dread warring inside.

“Pitch has broken his slumber and is resurrecting his Shadow Order even as we speak.”

The Council all began to mutter among one another, voices slowly raising in volume until it was impossible to tell what anyone was saying. Sandy’s hand drifted slowly to his neck, massaging his ever-silent throat. A chance to regain his voice...to see...

Sandy shook his head and looked back toward the Archmage, only to find the man blatantly ignoring his own Council and watching Sandy calmly. With a sudden clarity, Sandy knew why he been called, knew that the Commander’s loud blustering about rallying their most powerful mages and warriors would not be heeded.

“Mage Sanderson,” the Man in the Moon intoned quietly, instantly silencing the squabbling mages. “You shall journey to Userees and seek council in the Dreaming with the Fae Queen, Toothiana. We cannot move against Pitch until we know where he is and how his powers fair.”

The Commander opened his mouth in protest, but the Man in the Moon silenced him with a raised hand.

“I have attempted to see into the Dreams that are yet to come, but my sight has been darkened,” the old mage wearily explained, causing more disturbed mutters from the Councillors. “I will not risk our world in full battle without need, should a more subtle approach be available.”

Sandy nodded and turned to take his leave. Userees was a military town on the far eastern border, on the outskirts of the Bogwood, where the barrier between this world and the Dreaming was thin. It would be the easiest place for the Fae to cross over. It was also the easiest place for everything else lurking in the Dreaming to make its way across...

As he passed back into the tower, Sandy heard the soft voice of the Archmage follow him.

“Moon guide and protect, Dreamwalker.”

Sandy hoped he wouldn’t need the blessing.

 

 

The sun was dipping low on the horizon and Jack was about to resign himself to another night of restless dreams and the moon whispering jibberish at him until the woods on either side opened out into low farmland. There was a small cluster of houses down the way, lights just beginning to flicker on. With any luck he would be able to either filch a small amount of coin or work off a meal and a night at an inn.

Breaking into a light jog and ignoring his aching feet and the blisters that had popped up from travelling barefoot all day, Jack stumbled down from the slight hill he was on. He was almost upon the first of the houses when an arrow whizzed over his head, ruffling his hair. A warning shot. Jack lurched to a halt and held up his hands.

“Name and business!” a dark figure called from the roof of the nearest building.

“Uh, Jack Frost, mage,” Jack called back warily, wondering at the reception. Perhaps there were robbers in the area, though their ilk rarely wandered too far south of the northern forest. “Just looking for somewhere to pass the night.”

The shadow hopped down from the roof onto the shorter chicken coop, and finally onto the ground. As he approached Jack picked out his features in the dying light. An older farmer by the looks of the man; rough features and dark skin from days spent labouring in the sun. He had a bow clutched in one hand and a full quiver slung over his broad shoulders.

“Hmm,” the man murmured, looking Jack over. “Y’look a’rights to me, I s’pose. Best be gettin’ to the inn though, there’s been trouble these last days.”

Jack nodded and waved his thanks as he passed the man and started into the little hamlet. He wondered what kind of trouble, but didn’t want to stick around on the streets to find out first hand. It looked like a night spent in the kitchens working for a bed and a meal. With trouble came more alertness from the locals. A bad time for picking pockets. And with any luck, the serving staff and innkeeper would be willing to gossip about the trouble.

The inn proved easy enough to find. It seemed to double as the village’s tavern and light and laughter filtered out the open door into the soft summer night. Jack slipped into the crowded room and wandered toward the bar. He leaned over, motioning at the barkeep for a word.

“You look a might young to be drinking there, son,” the keep told him, leaning over the smooth wooden surface.

“I’m older than I look, but I’m not asking for a drink,” Jack snapped back, standing up a little taller, wishing he had a little more meat and muscle on his scrawny limbs. “I’ve been on the road a couple days and it’s hard for a Winter Mage to make coin this time of year.”

“Ye’ll be wantin’ to work for food and lodging then,” the barkeep nodded to himself and motioned Jack toward the kitchens. “Innkeep should be ‘round the back. Good fellow, ought to give you a good deal.”

Jack thanked the man and wandered off. If he had been paying more attention to the crowd he may have noticed the bright eyes watching him.


	3. Snow Day

## Chapter Three

Jack scratched at his hands idly, sitting out on the back steps of the inn, a bowl of warm stew and the end of a bread loaf resting next to him. His skin was red from the hot water he’d been washing dishes in, and the soap itched slightly, but all in all the night had been good.

The innkeeper had been as welcoming as the barkeeper had said and Jack had been allowed one of the rooms and his evening meal for a night spent helping out in the kitchens. The cook, who was the wife of the keep leaned out the back door.

“Jack, would you mind pulling in some wood for the fires?” she asked. “Once you’re done your supper?”

Jack nodded and smiled at the woman before scooping up his bowl and starting in on the cooled meal. He’d never had much of a stomach for hot food, made him feel uncomfortable and feverish for hours afterward. He supposed his aversion made his life a little easier. Hot food was more expensive.

The stew disappeared quickly and Jack leaned through the door to toss the bowl onto the counter by the sink before he hopped off the steps and wandered out to the woodpile. The inn sat on the edge of town, with a small farmer’s field separating it from the forest Jack had stumbled out of a few hours before. As he pulled down an armload of split wood, Jack stared out at the dark trees, wondering again what kind of trouble plagued the town. The serving girls and the cook had been oddly reluctant to talk about it, and Jack hadn’t pressed the issue. Strangers weren’t often welcomed into small areas when there was trouble and curious strangers even less so. Still, he hadn’t had any trouble in the woods during the day and it made his theory about robbers or bandits unlikely. Daylight wasn’t enough to keep a group away from one lonely traveller...although Jack’s threadbare and shoeless appearance may have deterred them. No point in bothering when there’s no profit.

Still. Robbers always made good gossip. And a lone archer wasn’t much of a solution for a band of thieves. As far as he could tell, no one had contacted the capital requesting aide from the Nine Sanctums warrior mages. And even with his limited powers Jack could still feel the thick veil that separated the Dreaming from the waking world, no thin spots for the horrors of a Dreamer’s nightmares to slip through. No matter how he looked at it, nothing made sense, and that alone made the shadowy outline of trees seem so much more sinister. That and the burning lights of the village made places without light seem just that much blacker.

What had the little village’s people too scared to let the lights go out? Torches and lanterns blazed outside each house, not just along the few streets, but around the backs of houses, and within as well. As Jack wandered in with each armload of wood, delivering them to the occupied rooms and the main common and kitchen, he noted how even in the cheerful atmosphere of the inn people were still grouping around light sources. Corners that would normally be left a little more shadowy to save on wood and candles were brightly lit.

Jack finished stacking wood in the last of the guest rooms and made his way back to the kitchens. Just one more run, a small stack of wood in the kitchen for stoking the stoves in the morning and he would be free to sleep for the evening, his bed and meal worked off. He grabbed up an armful and turned to head back into the inn when movement out in the field caught his eye.

Setting the wood back onto the pile, Jack moved over to the fence and squinted at the dark trees across the field. The night was silent, except for muffled conversation and laughter from the inn behind him, and Jack was just about to shrug it off as some little critter or his own imagination when a large shadow broke off from the brushes along the edges of the woods and disappeared farther into the trees.

Jack jogged back to the kitchen door and grabbed his staff from where it was leaning against the wall of the inn. Moving back to the woodpile, Jack vaulted the fence and began his trek across the small field. What had seemed flat in the dark was actually full of rocks and hidden pits from animals burrowing and the work horses dragging various farming equipment across the ground. Jack swore as he caught his toes, his blisters burning as dirt was worked into them. Hopefully the room he would have tonight would come with a wash basin.

It was almost a relief to reach the dark edges of the small forest, if only to have the soft layer of loam, moss, and old leaves underfoot. Jack sighed and crept into the forest where he had seen the shadow. The woods were dark and quiet around him, even the noises of the inn unable to reach them. As he crept into the woods, every slow breath and crackle of twigs underfoot seemed to echo around him. Even his own heart beat felt loud enough to make his ears throb, his pulse all the way down into his finger tips.

Looking around himself, his eyes gradually adjusting, Jack made out a small tree bent over him, the snarl of thin branches and leaves with small splash of moonlight reminding him of – _a screaming dandelion curled down toward him and he raised his hands protectively over his head as he charged forward through the field_ – Jack shook the image out of his head and let out a long slow breath as he moved further into the woods, eyes wide in the dark as he searched for whatever had been moving in the woods, staff held out before him protectively. A low rustling as a light wind moved through the trees, leaves swirling and stray shafts of moonlight making shadows shift and – _shadows spewing from a gaping, screaming maw, consuming him, frost creeping in the darkness_ – Jack curled down, hand gripping his knee and breathing heavily, the usually soft murmurs of the moon pounding in his ears. His staff, still clutched tightly in one hand, put a chill into the air, frost creeping out in a circle around the young mage. Trying to slow his breaths, Jack rested his head against his staff, wisps of his mottled hair hanging in his eyes.

Once his heart rate was down again and the moon was back to low, easily ignored whispers. Jack pushed himself back upright. He made to continue into the forest when a piece of the shadows wrapped around his arm, holding him in place. Jack yelled and whipped around, staff lashing out in front of him and the world whited out.

 

 

Sandy felt the layers between the waking world thinning even a full day’s ride outside of Userees. The road from the capital had been busy when he had left two days before, but as he had left the central areas of Manen, the crowds had thinned, until now even the farms had disappeared and empty meadows and marshland with occasional tree stands were all that lined the road. The road itself had changed too. Closer to Manengrad the roads were paved with thick and sturdy slabs of stone, which had eventually transformed into rough cobbles, which had in turn faded to rutted dirt. The only signs of passage on the road were the thick paths worn by military convoys, the dirt packed by the enormous stallions ridden by warrior mages and the thick boots worn by the unGifted soldiers.

It was country Sandy was intimately familiar with, being as he was a Dreamwalker. Since he had lost his voice to Pitch during the last Darkening and could no longer practice the more complex spellwork and rituals he had loved in his time as High Sand Mage, Sandy had found solace in wandering the Dreaming. It was a place where voice was not necessary for advanced spells, where the mind ruled and the Fae roamed.

Patting the neck of his golden mare absently, Sandy pulled out some straps in order to tie his body to the saddle. The mare had been with him for a few years now and would be more than capable of making her own way to their destination while Sandy’s mind wandered the Dreaming. Making sure the ties were secure and would not loosen, Sandy took a deep breath and let his sand form around him and settle onto his skin. As his breaths died away and his heart slowed, the golden sand thickened until only the outline of the man who rode was visible. There was no movement or breath from the Sand Mage. The mare snorted once, giving he mane a slight shake, but continued down the path.

 

 

Sandy blinked as he woke in darkness. One or two little lights hovered nearby, but otherwise the darkness around him was uninterrupted. Not unusual in the Dreaming during this time of day and in such a deserted area. Taking a deep breath, Sandy blew out a cloud of Sand, directing it into strands that coiled around themselves until shapes took form and the darkness faded into the serenity of a woodland pond. Sandy wandered the edges, watching as miniature versions of his golden mare skimmed the water’s surface, little dragonfly wings beating furiously on their backs. 

As he walked a figure materialized beside him. A woman. She hovered a scant couple centimeters off the ground, supported by rapidly beating wings that shifted form constantly. In one instant they were the colourful tapestry of a monarch butterfly, the next the sleek feathers of a hummingbird or the thin buzzing and transparency of a wasp. Her limbs were also shifting, though not quite as wildly. Her form was human, but the skin moved from scales to feathers in the blink of an eye, next to fur. Her face however, remained steady, long rainbow lashes framing wide purple eyes over a pale nose and delicate lips.

“Mage Sanderson,” the regal woman intoned as her hair went from the wild swaying of sea kelp to the bright feathers of a parrot. “The Archmage tells me you wish to seek my council.”

Sandy nods at the Fae Queen and their surroundings shift, the trees turning into black shapes, little yellow eyes peering from them. Toothiana takes pause as the changes occur.

“Yes, the Shadows have been stirring of late,” she murmurs in answer to the question posed by the new decor. “Pitch Black walks our world once more, perhaps even walks yours.”

Again the surroundings shift, the shadows melting away into hundreds of small people scurrying around at their feet, all wearing dark robes.

“I cannot say whether he has reassemble his Shadow Order, but his powers are indeed growing. My people normally are able to access all areas of the Dreaming, and now there are places where we cannot walk...or dare not. Some of us have disappeared.”

Sandy felt distress well up in him. Things were progressing much faster this time. He should have known they would. Pitch was not new to his Dark powers this time around. He had no doubt that the former War Counsellor was wasting no time in recreating his Dark Kingdom.

“The Dreaming is no longer safe,” Toothiana continued, a furred hand coming to rest on Sandy’s shoulder. “And I do not know how much longer I will be able to make contact with Dreamers or wander Dreams freely.”

The Sand Mage heard the underlying message. The Fae were falling, either capture by Pitch or seduced by his powers. He closed his eyes and let out a long breath. In the last war the Fae had overcome Pitch and given the mages physical access to the Dreaming in order to bind him. If the queen was right, there would be no such option this time. Sandy changed the Dreaming around him once more, the small scurrying figures replaced by a large bolt of black fabric, torn down the middle to show trees and a golden mare plodding down a dirt road.

“Are you suggesting...” his companion began hesitantly, her eyes flicking between Sandy and the image below their feet. “I...I don’t know how to thank you.”

Sandy waved his hands and smiled broadly at the woman. He needed her help.

“My powers would be diminished, but I will do what I can. When will you return?”

The torn cloth disappeared and they stood at the edge of a cliff, watching as a sun set and came up again, rising until it hit its noon zenith.

“I will see you tomorrow then,” Toothiana said with a smile, fading out of Sandy’s Dream.

 

 

Jack looked around him in horror. He had never lost control of his magic so completely. The warm summer night now lay dampened under a chill and the forest around him was covered in snow, drifts almost a meter deep in some places, and small flakes still drifted down through the air around him. 

Standing in the middle of it all, bare feet buried and snow clinging to his knees, Jack searched for whatever had grabbed him. His mind threw hundreds of scenarios at him, each worst than the last. What if it was robbers in the woods and he had just ticked them off? What if someone had followed him and he had hurt them? What if he’d killed someone? Images of him being detained, mages called on to come and strip his powers haunted his mind and he began to hurried dig through the powdery snow. His magic should be dormant right now, and here he was in the middle of a small blizzard.

A mound slightly to his left shifted and groaned and Jack almost cried in relief. Whoever it was, they were at least still alive. And probably pissed.

“Um...are you okay?” Jack asked, approaching the snow pile and starting to brush it off. “I’m really sorry, that wasn’t supposed to...”

Jack trailed off as the person in the pile stood up...and up...and up. As the snow fell away and fur became visible, jack realized that it wasn’t a person, but some forest beast. Letting out his second startled cry of the night, Jack turned to run back to the inn. If the villagers were worried about some giant beast in their woods it would explain all the odd behaviour. Visions of a gigantic wolf-like creature chasing him through the night, fangs glittering and saliva dripping flashed through Jack’s mind.

He made it three stumbling strides before her was lifted off the ground and he shrieked loudly, thrashing and wishing his magic would malfunction again.

“Hold still ‘fore I really decide ta hurt ya,” a voice grumbled and the strange yet familiar accent broke through Jack’s panic.

“Y-you!” he exclaimed, trying to twist around and see the rabbit-Pooka-thing.

“Me?” the voice asked and then Jack was being yanked up and turned to face the creature, still dangling a good ways off the ground. “You’re that little thief. Thought you were stayin’ back at the inn.”

“Hey!” Jack protested, though he wasn’t sure if it was the ‘little’ or the ‘thief’ part. Both were unfortunately true, especially compared to this creature. He decided to go for the easy one. “I haven’t stolen anything. Not here.”

The Pooka snorted and dropped him. He hit the snow with a muffled thump, white billowing around him.

“What did ya do?” the Pooka demanded, looking around the forest.

“It was an accident,” Jack snapped. “You startled me.”

“Why are ya even out here?”

“Why are _you_ out here?”

“I’m a Pooka,” the creature said, as if it explained everything. Jack just stared at the other blankly. “Ya know, the warrior shapeshifters? Fought in the Darkening?”

“Oh,” Jack said, scratching at his head as he recalled some of the history lessons as the tower. “I thought they all died?”

The Pooka made a rough sound and shoved Jack down into the snow then started stalking off into the woods.

“Sorry, sorry,” Jack called, pulling himself back up and skipping over to the Pooka’s side. “But why are you here?”

“Lookin’ for whatever’s botherin’ these folk,” the Pooka replied, irritation marking his tone. “So why don’t ya leave me to it and get on back to the inn.”

“I could help you.”

“Oh yeah, by making it snow again? Loads of help.”

“Two sets of eyes are better than one.”

“Leave.”

“What’s your name?”


	4. Waking Up

##  Chapter Four

“If I give ya my name will ya go back to the inn?” The Pooka asked, continuing to struggle his way through the snow

“No,” Jack answered cheerfully, watching the other’s efforts to move through the product of his earlier mishap.

“Will ya at least be quiet and stay out of my way?”

Jack considered this for a moment then nodded.

“Bunnymund.”

“Seriously? You’re a giant rabbit named Bunnymund? Just Bunnymund?” Jack cackled in disbelief.

“Not just Bunnymund. It’s my surname,” the Pooka replied looking even more irate.

“So what’s your full name?” Jack weaseled, still chuckling to himself.

“Not part of the deal, now shut your mouth like ya promised,” Bunnymund snapped, finally reaching the edge of the snow piles Jack had conjured and stalking off into the dark woods.

“Fine, suit yourself, Bunny,” Jack replied and fell silently into step beside the Pooka.

Bunnymund growled but otherwise ignored the mage in favour of continuing his search of the woods. Jack smirked to himself and followed along in the wake of the Pooka. If he were truthful to himself, which he was every now and then, he would admit that it was comforting to have someone else in the darkness and quiet of the woods. He no longer saw flashes of his odd Dreams everywhere he looked.

Perhaps the most entertaining part of the entire night was watching the enormous ears a top Bunny’s head flicker around, picking up random sounds in the night. Jack couldn’t hear anything, but then his ears were a much less impressive size.

As the night wore on and the woods remained as still and dark as ever, Jack grew bored, picking at his hair, separating out the brown from the white where it was long enough to see. He would need to scrape together enough money to get his hair cut soon, he mused absently, twisting sideways to slip between two small saplings. Especially with summer well on its way.   
Jack was paying so little attention to his surroundings by then that he ploughed right into Bunnymund, a small ‘ooph’ of surprise pushing out of him. A furry arm wrapped around his head and clawed fingers clamped over his mouth. Jack grabbed at the arm and drove his foot into the other’s leg, but all the rabbit did was wince and continue staring off into the dark with wide eyes. Jack stopped his struggle for a moment and followed Bunny’s gaze, his body going rigid when he saw what had the Pooka so concerned.

In a particularly dense patch of brush, where no moonlight glittered through the leaves glowed a pair of yellow eyes, pupil-less and sickening in the shadows. Jack felt the rabbit reaching around with his free hand slowly to the leather holster strapped across his back, one of the strange wooden weapons clutched in his furred hand when it came back into sight.

As soon as the weapon was drawn the bushes in front of them exploded, shadows racing towards them and a horrible, unearthly shriek piercing the night as yellow eyes bore down. Jack staggered as Bunnymund released him in order to properly rotate his shoulders and release the weapon into flight. In the last second before the creature was shredded, Jack caught a glimpse of shadow flesh under the faint moonlight.

A nightmare in the waking world. The terrible, writhing flesh of the horse-like creature, with horns lining its back and snake-like mane wriggling around it exploded as the oddly shaped wooden projectile ripped through it. One last shrill cry rent the night as the nightmare dissolved in front of them.

 

 

It was late morning as Sandy rode into Userees. The military outpost town was bustling in the bright sunlight. Off-duty soldiers and war mages wandered around from shop to shop, stall to stall browsing the wares. Sandy rode through easily, people waving easily at him. He smiled back at some of the more familiar faces. It was nice to be back.

When not wandering the Bogwood, slipping in and out of the Dreaming as he pleased, Sandy spent his days in Userees and the few surrounding villages. Before heading for the far end of the town and venturing into the Bog Wood, Sandy turned off down a side street and dismounted in front of a small bakery, the sign overhead proclaiming it as Bennett’s Breads. A small bell overhead tinkled prettily as he passed through the door.

“Morning, Sandy!” a cheerful brunette called from behind the counter. “You’ve been gone awhile.”

Sandy waved easily to the young owner, Jamie, and dug around in his coin purse.

“Hey now, none of that,” Jamie chided, placing a fresh loaf of apple bread down on the counter. “You can pay me by entertaining the little monster out back for a few minutes.”

Sandy gave Jamie a thumbs up in thanks and grabbed the bread as he wandered through the kitchen and out the back door. The bright laughter of Jamie’s kid sister danced around the small backyard of the bakery and Sandy smiled as a head of blonde hair barrelled into his stomach. Sophie peered up at him gleefully.

Smiling back, Sandy clapped his hands and several golden butterflies soared out across the small patch of grass. Sophie cheered and Sandy watched as the seven-year-old chased them around. The little girl was a kindred spirit to him in a way, didn’t speak much, no more than a word or two at a time. He remembered watching Jamie run around much the same when the boy had been younger and the parents had still owned the bakery. It had been almost four years now since the Bennetts had been killed by a nightmare that had broken through the layers of the Dreaming. Jamie had been only sixteen when he had been left to run the bakery and raise his little sibling. Sandy had helped out as he could, the Bennetts had always been kind to him. Watching the little girl run around under the bright sun, Sandy let old, fond memories sweep him away.

 

 

Closer to noon, with Sophie resting on her back and swatting at the sand-bubbles drifting around her, Sandy rose from his seat on the steps and wandered back in to let Jamie know he would be leaving. On his way through the kitchen Sandy tossed a few silver coins onto one of the long bench tables used for rolling out dough. He waved to Jamie as he left, and the boy smiled cheerfully at him as he navigated the lunch time crowds.

He mounted his mare and rode off through the crowded streets and toward the large gates that loomed over the eastern end of the town. The guards on watch waved him through, well used to the mage’s frequent comings and goings.

Once under the cool trees, mosses and lichens draped around him and the only noises buzzing insects and his horse’s hooves squishing their way through the swampy ground, Sandy let himself Dream.

 

 

“Mage Sanderson,” Toothiana murmured, appearing beside him as he waited in his dream-meadow.

Sandy smiled at her, laughing silently as her hair spun from spider silk into the bright fan of a peacock’s tail. He reached out to her and she took his hand, her slick scales sliding against the rough calluses of his palm. Breathing deeply, Sandy pulled his sand around them, the golden strands whirling brightly as the meadow faded into the darkness of unformed Dreaming.

They stood in the darkness together for what seemed both moments and ages, watching the small balls of light that were other Dreamers flicker in and out as people randomly dozed through the noon heat in the waking world. Suddenly, the darkness around them flickered weakly, faint flashes of trees and swampy ground showing through, a figure covered in golden sand and riding a golden horse.

“The barriers are thinning,” Toothiana remarked calmly, a barely visible shadow next to Sandy. “Is it enough?”

Sandy shook his head, watching the flickers of the waking world worm their way into the Dreaming. Taking a deep breath and gathering as much sand around them as he could, Sandy concentrated on the barrier between the worlds, feeling for a spot thin enough. He only hoped he could deliver results. He had transported his own physical body into the Dreaming and back out in thin enough areas before; had been transported into the Dreaming physically for the first time by the Fae during the last Darkening. But he had never attempted to pull anything or anyone back out with him, especially when his own physical form was not present.

The world flashed brightly into being around them and Sandy let the sand swirling around them implode on their forms, pushing back the darkness of the Dreaming and pulling at the string of thought that tied him to his body. 

For the briefest moment he worried about the effects becoming physical for the first time would have on the Fae Queen. Then he was back on his mare, plodding through the Bogwood and rubbing small crusts of Sand from his eyes.

 

 

_Jack’s breaths came in icy puffs and the biting winds that roared around the fields and mountains of ice around him felt like the soothing arms of the mother whose face he couldn’t remember. As far as he could see, all was white with the occasional black and grey of rocks protruding from the endless glaciers and spires of ice swirling up toward the sky._

_Compared to most of his dreams of late this was a welcome reprieve, if unnervingly silent. A quick glance overhead showed a pale, off-grey sky with no moon or sun to be seen. No incomprehensible murmurs danced in his ears. Jack wasn’t sure if he was relieved or not._

_Jack walked up to one of the pillars of ice sticking its jagged spires up out of the landscape, his bare feet crunching over the brittle, dry snow. His own image reflected back at him and Jack reached out to place a hand against that of mirror-Jack. The instant his fingers touched ice the image within fractured and fell away. In its place stood a young man who, if Jack was not mistaken, was himself...but different. The hair of his image-self was completely white, the off-blue of frost and ice weaving through the strands. In place of his plain brown eyes were orbs of sparking ice crystal blue. The figure back away into the ice spire, laughter dancing in his face and snow swirling around him, even as Jack and the land air around him remained still and silent._

_For a brief moment as the figure danced off out of sight into the depths of the ice, Jack felt a pang of loss, as if he knew the other him; a distant long forgotten memory._

_“So this is what the little Winter Mage Dreams of,” a soft and sibilant voice echoed softly around him, muffled by the thick snow and ice. “How...cliché.”_

_A shadow twitched in Jack’s peripheral vision and he twisted to try and catch a glimpse. For a fraction of a second there was a deep black broken only by the presence of terrible shadowed-yellow eyes. Like an unhealed bruise or a bloated corpse. And then there’s nothing, just more unbroken and desolately cold landscape._

_“Poor little broken mage. No family to love you. No friends to shelter you,” the voice taunted. “Not even the Order of the Moon to protect you. Those holier-than-thou mages who took you in and then cast you out, all because your magic doesn’t fall into their pretty little categories.”_

_“Who are you?” Jack whispered, twisting around in the hopes of catching a glimpse of his tormenter._

_“You know me little mage,” a voice whispered into his ear, hot breath tickling his lobe._

_Jack whipped around only to find more empty glaciers._

_“But you’ve forgotten,” the voice continued, coming from everywhere at once. “It took much to lock me away. A Dreamer’s Voice. A Dreamer’s Sight. And a Dreamer’s Memory.”_

_Jack shivered at these words, confusing thoughts whirling through his mind. Images of places he’d never been, people he didn’t know dancing behind his eyes._

_“How long were you in the Tower, Jack?” the voice taunted mercilessly. “How long ago were you kicked out?”_

_“How do you know my name?” Jack questioned, his voice breaking around the words._

_“In time, Jack, in time.”_

_The icy world faded away and Jack was left drowning in shadows._

Jack shot up out of his bed at the small in, clutching his head as aching spear ploughed through his brain. The pain ebbed after a few long seconds and Jack’s laboured breathing slowed. He pushed himself up from the floor where he had fallen from the bed and made his way over to the wash basin and small mirror balanced on the table next to the door.

The first splash of cooled water across his face was a relief and Jack felt the remnants of his headache fade away. The least Jack could say about his new dream was that there were no more stupid screaming dandelions. Jack breathed out a slow sigh and glanced up at his reflection.

For the briefest moment the boy from his dreams smiled back at him and Jack jerked fully upright. Only to find his own startled face looking back at him. The white strands in his hair seemed a little thicker than they had the last he’d looked in a mirror and his eyes somewhat lighter than he recalled, but both were normal. His hair was always slowly fading from its old brown and the eyes a trick of the light. He was just tired, his mind playing tricks on him. Not unexpected after having found a wild nightmare charging around in the woods. Perhaps with it dead at the hands of that Pooka, Bunnymund, the town would be able to find some peace.

Jack stumbled down into the kitchens where the cook shoved a bowl of steaming porridge into his hands. He could smell honey in the warmth wafting off the meal and could see raisins poking out here and there. He smiled gratefully and wandered off to the back steps, setting his meal aside to cool some as he stared out at the woods. Even this late in the day (for it had to be almost noon, Jack had slept for a long time) the trees were thick with fog and Jack would bet it was snow melt from his accident last night.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw a figure leaning casually against the back of the inn, watching the late morning sun warm the grass and burn off the last of the dawn mist. Jack hopped off his seat, grabbing up his bowl along the way and wandered over to stand next to the Pooka.

“Morning,” Jack said casually, watching as the Pooka gave him a small glare and steadfastly ignored him. ‘Must still be sore about the snow thing,’ Jack thought idly.

“Got any plans now that there’s no nightmare stalking the woods?”

“Head east,” the rabbit said stiffly, still not looking at Jack. “Probably to Userees. Heard some odd reports.”

Jack hummed thoughtfully, taking a mouthful of his porridge and wrinkling his nose. Still too warm.

“I’ll probably turn around and head back north,” Jack mused, more to himself, but it was nice to talk to someone even if the conversation was somewhat terse and one-sided. “Nothing but hot weather and trouble from heading south. Onnaan sounds like a much better idea than Aeriad.”

Onnaan was Manen’s northernmost urban centre, an industry town only fifty kilometers south of the Great North Forest, a thick belt of trees that separated Manen from the northern ice sheets. It was far enough from the forest that there wasn’t a large military presence (the North Forest was home to a large population of society’s least savoury) but cool and remote enough that it didn’t see much traffic or attention from the capital. Indeed most of its industry circumvented the capital completely and was shipped by trade caravans straight west to the coastal port of Erlion.

“What, more profit up there?” the Pooka snorted disdainfully. “Might be difficult being in competition with all the other thieves that frequent the north, most of them know better than to pick pockets in broad daylight.”

Jack glared at the other, his pride stinging.

“I’ll have you know I’m a master at slight-of-hand,” Jack snapped. “If I wasn’t I’d’ve been a dead body in some little alley years ago.”

“Well with your magical prowess I’d imagine so,” Bunnymund grumped back, eyes cast off into the distance so that he didn’t notice the young mage wince at the barb.

“Whatever,” Jack bit out, turning and walking back into the kitchen.

He gulped down the last of his porridge, washed his dishes and sought out the innkeeper in order to thank him. It was time to get out of this stupid little village.

 

 

Sandy looked around himself quickly as he woke in the saddle of his mare. The horse had stopped walking and stood in the shadow of an old and lichen-covered oak, thick grass and reeds surrounding it. The air around him was still except for the buzz of insects and the chirping of birds and he felt something fall in the pit of his stomach.

It hadn’t worked, he hadn’t been able to bring Toothiana into the waking world. He only hoped she was still in the Dreaming and he hadn’t destroyed her completely. Preparing to go back and make sure the Fae Queen was unharmed from his attempt at complex spell work, Sandy gathered his dream sand into the air around him.

A rustling in a thick patch of reeds nearby had him instantly on edge, sand weaving not onto his body but into a long golden whip. A bright figure staggered out of the weeds, tripping and splashing through the murky swamp.

“Oh dear,” a somewhat breathless voice giggled.

The creature fell over, flashing green and purple and blue in the bright sunlight. Sandy lowered his guard, watching the stranger flail around.

“This is harder than it looks,” the creature – female by her voice – laughed, staggering back upright. “How do you mortals manage having such a solid and singular form?”

In a flash Sandy realized who it was he was witnessing splashing around in mud and water. Toothiana beamed up at him, her body covered in tiny little feathers, except for her hands and face, and glittering insect wings folded neatly along her back. Sandy laughed silently at her and shrugged. He could only imagine what it must be like to go from insubstantiality and a continuously shifting form to a stable and solid body.

The horse snorted loudly and Toothiana once again tumbled into the water of the swamp.


	5. Memory Lane

## Chapter Five

Dusk was coming to the Bogwood as Sandy and Toothiana emerged from a thicket of black spruce into a small clearing. At the center stood a small cabin, a thin dome of golden sand hovering lightly in the air around it. The mare whinnied happily as Sandy dismounted and helped the Fae Queen off and trotted over to a small lean-too stable. Sandy opened a bin of oats sitting nearby and dumped a large scoop into a small trough that was really no more than half a hollowed out log.

He sighed happily, the air making no noise as it passed his lips. It was good to be home. As he turned back to the house he spotted Toothiana standing quietly by the door, her wings flickering quickly as she tried to finish drying them off from her earlier impromptu swim. The light of the setting sun reflected off the transparent facets and danced across her feathers. A truly captivating sight.

Sandy walked over to open the door and motion her through the threshold. The air inside was somewhat stale from the couple weeks he had spent away after receiving the summons from the Archmage, but a couple cracked windows and a nice fire in the hearth soon had the cheery little cabin feeling like home again.

“Pitch’s presence is muted in this world,” Toothiana said, lingering by a window to watch the sunset. “He must still be bound to the Dreaming.”

Sandy nodded a whirl of sand forming into the number three above him as he set a kettle to boil over the fire. Toothiana frowned at the mage in confusion.

“Three bindings?” she questioned, watching as Sandy nodded in confirmation. “I only recall you and the Man in the Moon present when we finally forced Pitch to sleep.”

Sandy shrugged in confusion. He too could not recall the presence of a third mage, but in all the records of the original spell, a Binding written by an unusually talented Winter Mage whose name was long forgotten, three components were needed to fully bind Pitch into the Dreaming.

“The Voice of a Mage,” Toothiana muttered, hand delicately gesturing to Sandy and the mage nodded, then covered his eyes, eventually shifting his hands to rest on either side of his head. “The Sight of a Mage...and the Mind?”

Sandy shook his head, tapping again at his temples, his sand whirling into the shape of a small book with a ribbon trailing from its spine and a pen lying over top.

“A journal?” Toothiana asked in confusion before understanding lit up her eyes. “Memories, a Mage’s Memories. Perhaps it was not only the memories of the mage, but also the memory of that mage. That is why we cannot remember a third.”

Sandy nodded. It made sense, but it also left them with a rather large problem. One that Toothiana seemed to realize.

“We do not have a chance to defeat Pitch in the Dreaming, he is already too powerful and has control over the nightmares. Our only chance is to bring him here, to break the Binding and force him back into this world. We cannot break the Binding without the third mage.”

It was a rather daunting realization. How could they possibly find someone they couldn’t even remember having met? Someone who probably didn’t even remember having been involved either.

 

 

Night was approaching swiftly, the sun down and nothing but a deep red staining the western horizon and Jack was forced to admit that travelling north, while the climate was more agreeable, also sucked because it meant more nights spent outdoors. The towns and villages were growing sparser as he neared the northern edge of Manen, which meant restless nights of whispering winds and the mutterings of the Moon.

Jack left the road somewhat grudgingly and hauled himself up the largest tree he could find that was still in view of the road. It was a leafy cottonwood that would afford him some measure of protection from the wind and Moon and that was all Jack could really ask for.

Leaning against the trunk on a thick branch about ten meters off the ground, Jack clasped his staff to himself and allowed his eyes to drift shut. A wind flipped through the leaves, its voice weaving in and out of Jack’s ears and he frowned. For once the whispers were not quite jibberish, more like a conversation muffled through a wall. He tilted his head, listening desperately for the voices. Another gust, this one enough to part the leaves briefly and allow in the sallow light of a half moon and the voices were like shouts, ripping through his mind.

Jack covered his ears desperately, but the voices were inside now, clawing at his mind and he was small, so small...

_Jack woke in a darkened place. Glancing around he found the white curtains around the slim bed and realized he was in the infirmary of the mages’ tower. A voice and a light were slowly moving across the room toward his bed, apparently in conversation with a silent companion._

_“...no idea where he came from, was just outside wandering the steps this morning,” a woman’s voice said quietly._

_“Did he say who he was?” a male voice inquired gently._

_“No, poor boy was so confused, just kept asking where he was. He was quite hysterical, crying for his mother like a child,” the woman replied._

_“Strange, were there any signs of trauma?”_

_“No, but that doesn’t mean anything, it could be psychological. Often when the mind cannot handle a situation it shuts off, no memory of the event. Sometimes the brain replaces the memory with something else, something easier.”_

_“That doesn’t explain his behaviour.”_

_“In extreme cases the mind can revert to childhood memories in an act of self-preservation.”_

_“And you think this is what happened?”_

_Jack curled into himself. The conversation didn’t make any sense, why were adults so strange? He whimpered quietly, wondering where his mom was. He wanted to go home..._

_"You’ve looked for family?”_

_“Of course, but there was nothing. No record of birth, no name to go on, it’s like he just appeared from nowhere.”_

_“Well, the boy shows some magical ability, we’ll have him tested and registered at the tower, let the professors know he’s a special case.”_

_“He still needs a name.”_

_“Scans show he’ll manifest first as a Winter Mage. Frost ought to do as a name.”_

_“It will work for now.”_

_Jack’s head throbbed painfully and he clutched at it crying out. The voices and the room disappearing._

_As the darkness drowned him, Jack looked up to find two terrible eyes watching him from above._

_“Who are you, little mage?” the silky voice crooned at him. “Don’t you know?”_

Jack woke from a restless sleep just as the first rays of sun were peeking over the eastern horizon. His head ached fiercely and his eyes were heavy, but for the first time in days he couldn’t recall having dreamt much during the night. He had a vague recollection of himself as a child in the Tower’s infirmary.

Shrugging it off, Jack began his climb down from the tree. He could feel a slight nip in the morning breeze, something that summer never quite vanquished this far north. Stretching his arms above his head as he stepped back onto the road, Jack took a few deep breaths and smiled. Other than the faint headache, something he had grown accustomed to of late, the day promised to be a good one. The sky was a clear, brightening blue in the morning light and after being on the road for so long his blisters were starting to form into calluses. If he wasn’t feeling so tired he might be inclined to skip merrily down the sparsely cobbled road.

In the distant northern sky, Jack could just start to make out the traces of smoke and smog from Onnaan’s forges and mills. Perhaps another two or three days of travel and he would be at the city gates.

 

 

It was late in the morning before Sandy finally found the old trunk stashed in the back of his storage shed. The box was half submerged in the soft dirt floor of the small hut and the wood panels had rotted almost to dust between metal bindings. He lifted the lid, which crumbled in his hands as he tossed it aside. Inside were all the remnants of his time as a High Mage of the Nine Sanctums, the few possessions from those long gone years that he hadn’t been able to leave behind.

Digging through the dust covered contents, Sandy felt memories sweep over him. Times that brought bittersweet pangs to his chest. His fingers curled into a wad of silky, moth-eaten cloth, which peeled away from the other items, flashes of gold and silver embroidery sprinkled across the white cloth.

_Sandy tugged uncomfortably at his new robes, staring uncertainly at himself in the floor length mirror of the preparation chamber for the ceremony. It seemed wrong to see himself in such magnificent clothing. Somewhere in his mind he was still the unruly Summer Mage apprentice stumbling through hallways with armloads of books and papers, staying up all night trying to learn material for his Air Mage exams..._

_“Admiring yourself?” a soft voice teased from behind and Sandy turned to the door to find Kozmotis watching him, his own robes of station hanging gracefully over his form. Sandy doubted he looked half as regal in his new robes and not for the first time he wished he had hit the same growth spurt his old friend had during puberty._

_“Mage Commander,” Sandy murmured respectfully with a small smile on his lips, watching dark amber eyes spark in annoyance._

_“Is that really necessary, High Sand Mage?” Kozmotis retorted and Sandy couldn’t hold back a brief chortle of bright laughter._

_He sobered some as he turned back to the mirror, tugging his robes again and grimacing. A slim hand came to rest on his shoulder. Pitchiner had crossed the room to his side and was watching their reflection with a soft smile in place of his usual smirk._

_“Koz...”Sandy started, but trailed off almost immediately, twisting his hands nervously, a small frown pulling down between his eyes._

_“Stop fidgeting,” the darker man intoned, hand squeezing Sandy’s shoulder. “You did earn this.”_

Setting the robes to the side, Sandy took a deep breath and blinked to get rid of the tightness in his eyes. He was here to find something that could help them to find the third mage, not sit around wishing for days long gone. He dug further, ignoring old spell books and the other odds and ends in the trunk until his hand closed around the still-familiar soft leather of his old journal. 

He hoped that the Binding that had so completely erased every trace of the mysterious third mage from the memories of Toothiana and himself would have overlooked his own written account of the horror filled and painful days of the last Darkening.

As he stood to make his way back into the small cabin he called home, Sandy allowed his fingers to flick through the age-worn pages of the book. As he neared the end, something slipped from between the yellowed pages of parchment, what looked to be an old painting on vellum fluttering to the short grasses surround his home. Stooping to pick it up, Sandy’s heart stuttered in his chest. The image was faded and bits of paint had flaked in some areas, but the overall image was still easily visible.

Sandy stroked a finger over a faded image of Kozmotis, his elegant robes opened casually as he lounged in an armchair with a glass of red wine held delicately in thin fingers. To his left sat Nicholas St. North in casual shirt and trousers, his High Earth Mage robes tossed carelessly over the arm of his chair as the man roared with joyous laughter. On Pitchiner’s right was Sandy himself, a grin wide enough to bare all his teeth stretching his lips, his own robes bunched up so that he could curl up cross-legged on his overly stuffed seat. On the plush carpet that covered the floor, seated happily next to North’s chair was a small boy, probably no older than five playing with a miniature replica of a mage’s staff. The boy’s hair was a startling shade of white.

Sandy felt a tear slip down his cheek as he gazed at the picture. He remembered this particular scene, the three of them relaxing after the Mid-Winter Festival in Manengrad having finished performing the duties and ceremonies their stations required of them. It had been one of the last peaceful times, before Kozmotis had been fully consumed by the deep Shadows in the Dreaming and became known as Pitch Black. Looking at the image of Kozmotis, Sandy wondered if even then shadows had danced in those relaxed and happy eyes.

There was one thing about the picture that puzzled him though. He did not recognize the child.

 

 

By the time Jack stumbled up to the gates of Onnaan on his third day of travel since having an oddly dreamless night in the cottonwood tree, the sky was almost completely dark and the city had shut itself off for the night. Sighing in resignation, Jack crawled off the side of the road and into a patch of leafy bushes, curling up around the small woody trunks and roots to sleep until the gates reopened at dawn. 

Glancing up at the sky, he watched as thick clouds rolled overhead, drowning the last light of day. He fervently hoped it wouldn’t rain that night.

_“Jack...”_

_Jack looked up at the sound of his name, pausing in his efforts to tie white, glittering ribbons around the stems of the tulip patch he was sitting in. When no one appeared and the flower patch remained silent, Jack shrugged and went back to his ribbons. Suddenly the ribbons turned brittle and broke apart, drifting down into little piles of snow, the flowers withering into soggy brown lumps._

_The wind picked up and blew the small amount of snow into a small tornado around his._

_“Jack.”_

_His name echoed on the wind, the voice soft yet somehow piercing and Jack pressed his hands over his ears._

_“Jack!”_

_The name was shouted and with a stab of pain he realized the voice wasn’t piercing his ears, but his chest. His heart ached deep inside him, cold seeping into his limbs and he felt the telltale heat of tears coursing down his cheeks._

_Around him, the dead flower patch faded away and he found himself standing in the clearing of a marshy forest, morning sunrays dancing around him. As he stood there, soft footsteps approached behind him, but he didn’t turn around. He would know the sound of those feet anywhere and he smiled happily as soft-furred arms wrapped tightly around his waist from behind._

_“Mornin’, Frostbite,” a soft voice whispered, the chin of his companion coming to rest easily on his head._

_Jack hummed happily in response, pressing back into the warm soft fur over solid muscle behind him. It had been a long time since they had last found such a peaceful moment together. Out of the corner of his eye he could see others beginning to stir in the large encampment behind them, Pookas and Warrior Mages, unGifted soldiers and Healers beginning their days._

_It was hard to believe they were in the middle of a war, the possibility of nightmares and Shadow Mages descending upon them at any second. The morning seemed far too warm and peaceful for such an occurrence._

_“Do you think we’ll find him today?” Jack asked quietly, at once both hoping for and dreading such an occurrence. He hadn’t told his lover about the plan that the War Council had decided upon, about his own roll in the plan. He only hoped the Binding would work properly, that Aster would be spared any painful memory._

_The warm body behind him tensed and one of the arms left his waist to push paw-like fingers deftly through his white hair. Jack closed his eyes and let himself enjoy the feeling, ignoring the tension he could feel rolling off his Pooka._

_“Maybe,” Aster responded eventually, some unknown emotion colouring his voice. “Would be nice...to finally end all this.”_

_Jack nodded in agreement, steadfastly pretending his gut wasn’t curling coldly in on itself._

Jack woke at the sound of trumpets announcing the opening of Onnaan’s gates for the day. As he sat up and rubbed at his eyes, he frowned as his hand came back wet, realizing he had been crying in his sleep. He wondered at that for a moment, trying to remember what he had been dreaming about.  
All he could recall was warm fur and sunshine. Shrugging it off as nothing important, Jack crawled out from under the bushes and made his way into the northern city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I just want to thank everyone who has reviewed and given kudos so far. I love you all! I also officially have my laptop fixed, so hopefully I'll be writing more and putting up quicker updates.


	6. Dark is Coming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I kind of had to change the rating on this whole thing because this chapter has some gory parts. Just warning you ahead of time, there could be some TRIGGERS. Actually probably most definitely. Warning for explicit deaths, some involving children.

## Chapter Six

Jack stretched luxuriously along a recliner in the opulent townhouse of one of Onnaan’s richest merchants. A fabric and upholstery merchant that was conveniently half way to Erlion with his latest shipment. Jack had spent the better part of his first day in Onnaan watching the house, noting the Bindings on doors and windows (not new, at least a year since renewal and Jack had scoffed at the carelessness) and the small housekeeping staff that came through each morning to insure some level of upkeep. It had been child’s play to pick the lock on the back door, somewhat bothersome to key himself into the Binding (he had accidentally frozen the lock and had to wait three hours before making a new attempt). But in the end he had found himself in the back foyer none the worse for wear.

Rolling to his left, Jack idly considered the crystal decanter on the side table next to his seat. The brandy was a deep amber and Jack had never had any sort of liqueur before that he could recall. He ended up dismissing the idea based on his last and only drunken excursion, which had ended with him stuck in the holding cell of a rural military post just west of Userees some years back.

Making a face at the unpleasantness that had been the morning after, Jack chuckled and rolled over again. It was mid-afternoon of his third day living in comfort and opulence and the cleaning crew had already been through and locked up, Jack watching them surreptitiously from the branches of the large poplar that grew in the central courtyard of the townhouse. The remnants of his lunch, an apple from the garden and some cheese he had dug out of the pantry, rested comfortably in his stomach and the heat of the summer afternoon was slowly suffusing the house.

Jack dosed lightly.

_“We cannot keep doing this,” a tired voice sounded through the slightly ajar door of the Mage Examiner. “The relapses are starting to deteriorate his magic.”_

_“Yes,” the voice of the Mage Examiner answered. “I received the reports.”_

_“It’s been forty years, Examiner,” the other voice continued insistently. “And every decade or so, like clockwork, he’s – ”_

_“I am aware,” the Mage Examiner snapped and there was the scrape of a chair being pushed back. “The damage is obvious, but the Healers remain hopeful...”_

_“Hopeful for what?” demanded the other, voice rising. “We are no closer today than when he was first found. We have to face the truth of the matter. Frost will never recover, because we will never know what happened to the boy. His presence is beginning to affect other students. Students who _will_ be able to eventually sit their exams.”_

_A long sigh was heard and Jack crept a little closer in his crouch by the door, hands clasped over his mouth. He had only been in classes a week. He knew he wasn’t the best mage, and his spells never worked, but he was _trying_. He really was. He studied every night, completed all his exercises...and they were going to send him away. _

_“I suppose you are right,” the Mage Examiner admitted after several long seconds of silence. “We cannot help Frost. Perhaps being away from the Tower will do what we cannot. The Healer reports have confirmed that the relapses are related to his level of magical exposure.”_

_“That poses another problem,” the other mage murmured and Jack had to strain to hear his next words. “If magical exposure is a key, how are we to train him outside the Tower?”_

_“We aren’t,” the Mage Examiner replied heavily. “We cannot help him and we cannot keep him. No. The best we can do by Jack is let him go.”_

_“May the Moon Guide and Protect him,” the strange voice murmured sadly._

Jack woke with a start from his nap as he was dragged bodily off his chair. He yelped as he hit the ground and loud laughter sounded above him. Looking up he found three men, all in the rough leather and cotton clothes of hard working craftsmen. One with black hair and an old burn scar along his left jaw was tucking a set of lock picks back into folds of his shirt, while the other two, both sporting very short brown hair flanked Jack on either side.

“Looky ‘ere boys,” one of the brown-haired men said, fingering a sheathed knife hanging from his belt. “We’ve got ourselves a trespasser, we have.”

The other two chuckled brashly. Jack noted with some apprehension that all three sported tattoos that wrapped around their wrists and up their arms, although the two that hadn’t yet spoken had slightly shorter designs than the other. He had the horrible feeling that he was encroaching on the territory of some local gang.

“And not one of us neither,” the man continued, tutting in disappointment and shaking his head mockingly. “Not smart in these regions, lad. Not smart.”

The brunette on Jack’s other side moved suddenly and Jack felt something heavy connect with his head and the room spun blurrily until it all faded away, the men’s laughter chasing him down into the dark.

 

 

There had been little to go on in Sandy’s account of the war. Brief descriptions of battles, horrifying accounts of attacks from Shadow Mages and nightmares, some softer entries from days spent in the quiet tension between. There had been a name though, one Sandy couldn’t put a face to, but he had mentioned offhandedly once or twice.

Jack. No last name, so they must have been familiar, friends even. Sandy felt a pang of loss. For Pitch, whose memories caused him agony, and for this Jack, an unknown that left a hollow pang in his chest. His only hint to this mystery figure was the child in the picture and two names almost always mentioned in conjunction with Jack.

If the boy in the painting was indeed the Jack from his journal, the young child would have been in his late teens by the end of the war, a discomforting age to be fighting, but hardly the only teen to have done so. They had been desperate times.

However, the entries always read ‘Jack and Nicholas’ or ‘Jack and Aster.’ Two faces Sandy remembered quite well. Nicholas St. North, his old friend and colleague, had left the Tower after the war, just as Sandy had. After the horrors they had witnessed, and at the hands of an old friend, neither had been able to go back to their former positions. There was an empty space that followed them there, one with dark hair and amber eyes. Sandy had not seen or heard from his friend in centuries. The man had disappeared into the northern wilds, just as Sandy had isolated himself in the Bogwoods.

The other name referred to one E. Aster Bunnymund, one of the tribal leaders of the Pooka and the only Pooka to have survived the war. Sandy had no idea where the Pooka had gone, or whether the warrior was even still alive. He remember the raw grief and brokenness in the poor rabbit’s eyes at the end, when he returned from taking out the main force of Shadow Mages injured and alone.

This left him with several places to go if he was to find the lost mage, Jack. The first and easiest was to find North, since he at least knew he man’s last location. The second would be to find Bunnymund. That was a daunting prospect. The Pooka could be anywhere from the uncharted eastern lands, to the great northern forest, or even across the western Strombard Sea. If he had returned to the eastern lands on the far edge of the Bogwood, to the underground warrens of his kind, Sandy had little hope of finding him.

So to the north it was. Sandy pushed himself away from his small kitchen table and tucked his journal and the painting into his travel pack, still packed and sitting in a corner of the little cabin. Toothiana pushed herself up from her seat by the fire and turned to watch Sandy.

“We are leaving?” Toothiana queried tiredly. The toll of a mortal body had worn on her over the last few days, but she was adjusting well.

Sandy created a little sun out of his Sand to let the fairy know they would be starting out in the morning, followed by an image of a compass, the arrow lined up with north.

“Your journal was helpful then,” Toothiana murmured, looking relieved and Sandy raised his thumbs at her, smiling lightly.

He picked up the lamp resting on the kitchen table intending to douse it and settle them both in for their final night in the cabin. Just as he moved to put out the flame, his mare shrieked outside, the cry rending the night. The lamp shattered on the floor, oil seeping slowly across the wooden slats.

 

 

When Jack woke it was to the bumping and jostling of being carried. His arms and legs were squished into his chest awkwardly, his neck craned forward as the burlap around him chaffed at his skin. Jack kicked out, hoping to surprise his kidnappers into dropping him, but the yeti of a man who was carrying him merely grunted at the contact and jabbed a hard elbow back at Jack.

Not one to go down easily, Jack scratched and punched and kicked, grunting each time his captor reached back to jab him in return. He could feel a livid bruise starting to form along his right side ribs, the pain growing with each elbow he took. Jack hissed and closed his eyes in pain, clenching his teeth and continuing to fight.

Suddenly, there was no one to punch or kick, the sack swinging wildly through the air and Jack yelled in surprise, the cry cutting short as he hit the ground and his teeth clicked together.

“Found somethin’ extra while takin’ down that merchant what left town,” jack heard Brown-Hair from earlier say. “Thought you’d be interested to see who’s been picking on our turf, m’ lord.”

Jack pushed up off the floor, pawing at the sack until he found the top and shoved it back off himself, glare firmly in place.

“Ha!” a loud voice barked out. “He is wee little thing!”

Jack looked up to find a large man, decked out in red and black leathers with long white hair and beard sitting in what looked like some sort of hunting throne. The entire thing was made of bones, antlers, and various animals skins, with chains of silver and gold wrapped about it, precious gems dangling off along the arms and the legs. Like the men who had taken him from Onnaan, this man had tattoos on his arms, but instead of just being around the wrists they curled and twined all the way up to his elbows, disappearing beneath the rolled sleeves of the man’s shirt.

“Small, maybe,” Brown-Hair agreed, then tossed Jack’s staff over to the enthroned man. “But he’s a mage, sure enough. Got through those Bindings and locks without breakin’ ‘em.”

The large man peered down at Jack with interest in his wide blue eyes, a hand coming up to cup his chin.

“What is name, wee thing?”

Jack scoffed at the man. Shadows could take him before he’d tell these men anything. Jack had an inkling of where he’d ended up. In the Northern Forest, smack in the middle of the Thief Lord’s court.

“Brave little man!” the Thief Lord shouted, looking gleeful and motioned some of his men forward from the crowd lining the walls of the wooden hall. “Put him in pit. We see how brave our little mage is in the morning.”

Two men flanked Jack on either side, dragging him up off the floor before he had a chance to grab up his staff. Jack struggled as he was dragged from the hall and out into the dim light of dusk filtering through the thick pine and spruce. Around him lanterns and torches flashed as they were lit for the evening and he had a few moments to glimpse the log cabins scattered throughout the trees before he was dragged up to the edge of a deep hole and tossed in.

 

 

Sandy ran toward the door of his cabin, Toothiana hot on his heels. He had the presence of mind to snatch up his travel pack before running out into the night. Once beyond the door, Sandy nearly stopped running as he saw the shadow sand oozing into his clearing. The small dome of golden sand he had protecting his cabin was flickering weakly under the onslaught and his mare was rearing in her stable, eyes rolling in fear and letting out her piercing cries.

There was no time to saddle her and he grabbed the horse by the mane, pulling Toothiana up as he kicked the gate open and the horse bolted for the forest, back toward Userees. The sand licked at their heels, trying to crawl up his poor mare’s legs and in desperation Sandy wrapped her hooves in his own sand, hoping to hold off the attack long enough to reach the military checkpoint. Toothiana screamed behind him, tightening her grip and he urged his mare faster.

_People were running and screaming and Sandy was jostled to and fro as he tried to wade his way through the crowded lower levels of the Tower, away from the class he had been teaching. He stumbled into a break in the crowd and found an Air Mage on the floor, screaming a the top of his lungs as shadow sand poured out his eyes, nose and mouth. He clawed at his face, skin peeling away under frantic nails and blood dripping through fingers._

_Sandy turned away and pushed past back into the crowd, a hand clamped over his mouth as he fought back the urge to vomit._

His mare was starting to froth around her mouth, the whites of her eyes showing as she charged ahead, trees and willow shrubs whipping along her hide and the legs of the two riders. Sandy clung to the mane and once more forced back the black sand trying to ooze its way up the horse’s legs.

_Sandy was past the frantic crowds trying to escape the Tower and up into the middle levels of the tower. He ran ahead, slipping occasionally in trails of blood where the afflicted had dragged themselves across the ground in their death throws. Bodies littered the corridor, skin bloated and rotting even though they’d only been dead a handful of minutes._

_He had to stop as he rounded the corner and found a pile of small bodies, the new group of children who had arrived that day for their first tour of the Tower. The little faces were peeling away from the bone of the skulls, the same on the hands, clumps of hair attached to the blackened remains._

_Sandy bent over and vomited._

Ahead, Sandy caught his first glimpse of the guard tower lights and over the sound of his own roaring heartbeat and the desperate panting of his horse he heard shouting and saw the flash of spells. As they drew closer, Sandy made out the figures of soldiers and War Mages in the night, swords drawn and staffs held high. Around them were writhing black forms, the occasion glow of a sickly yellow eye flashing through the darkness.

_Sandy pushed back from the pile of corpses, stumbling until he fell and crawling until he managed to round a corner and slump against the wall._

_“Is it too much, Sanderson?” a sibilant voice taunted him and Sandy felt his insides freeze._

_‘Please no,’ he thought desperately, wishing he could close his eyes and forget the figure that rounded the corner, walking calmly with his hands clasped behind his back and robes swirling around his feet. He stared up into the familiar face, lips trembling as he saw the inky darkness leaking into Kozmotis’ lovely amber eyes, the amber now more of a corpse yellow._

_“I must admit, I may have become rather carried away,” the Shadow wearing his friend’s form advanced and Sandy could smell the rot and blood soaking the hem of the man’s robe._

_Desperately, Sandy raised his hands and blasted the other mage with a wall of Sand, crying at the sound of a body smashing into a wall._

The gates of the city were closed as Sandy charged into the guard station, not even hesitating as he leapt down from his horse and slung his sand out in a large arching whip, slicing through three nightmares as they descended on an unGifted soldier. He watched as Toothiana grew claws out of her knuckles and punched through one of the horrors. The dawn was still hours away.

 

 

Jack leaned casually against the wall of the pit he had been thrown into. The side where he had been elbowed several times ached fiercely with each breath and Jack knew his ribs were at least bruised, if not cracked. His arms, feet, and face were scratched from when he had landed at the bottom of this hole.

But the night was refreshingly cool and the opening in the trees overhead of his prison was bright with a quarter moon. Jack tried to relax and get some sleep.

_Jack sat alone outside his tent, staring morosely into the darkness of the evening._

_“Can’t sleep?” a deep voice asked and Jack smiled as Nicholas settled on the ground next to him._

_“Today was a bad day,” Jack said, voice cracking at the end and some tears slipping down his face._

_“Yes,” the large mage agreed, his tone bleak. “I’m not sure it has sunk in. Only this morning, Pooka were everywhere in camp. But yours came back.”_

_“He doesn’t want to see me,” Jack choked out on a sob. “H-he told me...told me to leave.”_

_Nick made a consoling noise, drawing the small male into his lap and rocking his softly as the pale mage cried._

_“He lost his family, his people,” Nicholas murmured softly into white hair. “Maybe he needs some time alone to sort out his mind.”_

_Jack nodded, hearing the wisdom in the other man’s words, still clinging tightly to the familiar girth of the Earth Mage’s body._

_“I...I just wish I could have spent tonight with him,” Jack explained sadly, knowing that come dawn he would be gone, and all this would be over. “It’s like no matter how close we come, we’re always losing. What tick to winning are we missing?”_

_“There only one trick to winning, son,” Nick crooned to his little boy, forced to grow up too soon. “The trick is not to get used to losing, otherwise you’ll never have anything else.”_


	7. Deep Dreaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yet again, a raise in rating. This time for explicit sexual content.

## Chapter Seven

As the sun rose over the misty expanse of the Bogwood, Sandy and the survivors of the night’s attack staggered blearily through the gates of Userees. He could see Healers who had set up stations along the walls to treat the wounded and some of the townspeople had started to poke their heads through their doors, eyes darting fearfully up and down the otherwise deserted streets. Beside him, Toothiana walked stiffly, too tired to fly or reverse the final transformation she had made during the night, leaving her with the spikes of a platypus sprouting from the backs of her calves and the claws of a lion tipping all her fingers.

The soldiers and war mages gave both of them a wide berth, Toothiana due to her odd form and Sandy from the black smears that stained the skin of his hands where a nightmare he had been too slow to dodge had bitten him. He rubbed at the spots that blemished his skin absently, wondering how he would get the shadow sand off. He knew from the last war how serious such an injury was, remembered the soldiers and civilians that survived attacks only to die weeks or months later as the infection spread through their bodies.

It wouldn’t do to think on such an end yet, though. Not while he still had so much left to do. Not with Pitch still wandering the Dreaming and unleashing his horrid creations on their world.

A panicked cry came from up the street and the tired soldiers, still ill at ease from the night’s battles, reached from swords and staffs, tensed for an attack even with the light of day pouring over them. A tearful woman ran down the streets toward the Healers, gripping the nearest one around their arm.

“He won’t wake up!” She shouted in distress, bodily hauling the Healer down the street. “He just...just lies there like the dead.”

Sandy, tired as he was, shared a worried glance with Toothiana and hurried off to see what the problem was. As far as anyone knew, no nightmares had made it into the city last night.

The woman pulled the Healer into her shop, a sweets store, and up the back stairs to the living quarters above. In one room slept a small boy, perhaps eight or nine years old. His breathing was even and deep, even with all the ruckus in the room.

The Healer approached the bed and gripped the child by a shoulder, shaking him cautiously while the woman stood off to the side, a hiccupped sob emerging every now and again. When the boy’s head merely lolled over to the side, the Healer frowned, checking the boy’s vitals.

“Heart rate is low, but even,” the man murmured. “He is breathing and seems in good health.”

Peeling back an eyelid to check on eye movement, the Healer jerked back in surprise, but not before he entire the mother, as well as Sandy and Toothiana saw what was underneath. Where there should have been white and an iris was nothing but pure black. It was unlike any affliction Sandy had seen in the last war and he felt unease curl in his stomach. Already Pitch was changing his game, and Sandy wasn’t sure what moves to make in order to catch up.

“This is an affliction from the Dreaming,” the Healer informed the distraught mother somberly and turned to Sandy. “Are you familiar with this sickness, Sand Mage?”

Sandy shook his head sadly, looking at the slumbering child helplessly. Toothiana picked at her claws distractedly, no longer watching the child but looking out the window of the bedroom into the street outside.

“People are gathering,” she informed the room and both the woman and the Healer gave the Fae Queen nervous looks. “We should go and see why.”

Sandy nodded in agreement, giving the child and mother one last sad glance and following his companion down to the store and out into the street. What had seemed a crowd when seen from above was more like a sea of distressed people, all parents and all crying out over how their children would not wake. Healers scurried from house to house, comparing notes whenever they passed. From what he could overhear, it was always the same. Children unable to be woken, eyes black as pitch beneath their closed lids. All of a sudden, a hand was closing over Sandy’s shoulder and he turned to find Jamie, panting and red in the face, eyes bright with unshed tears.

“Sandy!” the boy yelled to be heard over the noise of the people teeming around them. “It’s Sophie, I can’t wake her!”

Sandy covered his eyes with his hands and took a deep breath, trying to push back the panic he could feel rising in his chest. He looked back up at the young man with sad, helpless eyes and the hope in Jamie’s face began to fade. The young baker glanced around at the rest of the crowd, seeming to realize for the first time that he was not the only one concerned over a child.

“You can’t help her...can you?” Jamie asked, his voice breaking in the middle of the question. All Sandy could do was shake his head slowly.

A cry broke through the crowd, the words effectively silencing the mob.

“It’s the Dreamwalker’s fault!” Someone spat from within the crowd. “Just look at the beast he drags along with him! He’s brought this nightmare upon us!”

Sandy swallowed nervously as murmurs of agreement took up through the crowd and he suddenly found himself and Toothiana in the middle of a pack of wolves.

 

 

Jack woke from his slumber long before the sun was due to rise. For a moment he was disoriented, blinking confusedly at the dirt walls surrounding him, barely visible in the pale moonlight filtering down. Then he recalled the meeting with the Thief Lord and his side throbbed painfully. If he ever got his staff back he was going to freeze the arms off of his kidnappers.

There was a low rustling sound above him and Jack realized that this was what had woken him. He rustling grew louder until something was flung out over the pit, uncoiling down into it. A ladder, Jack realized and wondered why they were bringing him out. Dawn was still hours away.

Still, unwilling to spend any more time in the dirt pit than absolutely necessary, jack grabbed the rope ladder and hauled himself up. His side complained loudly, but the pain was muted compared to earlier in the evening and Jack knew that he had escaped anything worse than some bad bruising.

At the top, rough hands gripped him under the armpits and hoisted him up and to his feet. A man, not one of his kidnappers thankfully, with light dusty-brown hair and an impressive beard grinned at him and offered him an apple.

“Here ya go, kid, eat up,” the man said and motioned for Jack to follow him off towards one of the larger cabins. “Name’s Phil, sorry ‘bout the rough treatment earlier.”

Jack bit into the juicy fruit and followed Phil. He didn’t trust the man, or his intentions, but he needed to find his staff if he wanted to make any sort of escape attempt. The large cabin most likely was home to the Thief Lord and Jack would bet another night in the pit that his staff would be somewhere inside.

Phil opened the door onto a well-lit interior, a large fire crackling merrily in an enormous fireplace. The room was crowded for all its size, a group of chairs and couches bunched around a table near the fire and almost every inch of wall space taken up by wood and stone carvings.

“You have brought little boy!” the Thief Lord called loudly, tromping into the room carrying a tray covered in mugs and a large pitcher. “Now we have proper introduction.”

Jack stared at the man, who seemed even larger than before now that he was standing. Gone was the taunting and fierce demeanor from the wooden audience hall. In front of Jack stood an oddly cheerful and jubilant man.

“Sit!” the man ordered and Phil prodded Jack toward the chairs near the fire, where the Thief Lord was setting his tray down on the table. “You want hot cider? Yes?”

The man didn’t wait for Jack’s answer but poured out three mugs and passed two over to Jack and Phil. Jack took the mug and blew on it lightly, hoping the others wouldn’t question his reluctance to drink.

“My apologies for the earlier rough treatment,” the Thief Lord continued, waving a hand and looking earnestly at Jack. “It doesn’t do to let softness show in a den of thieves.”

The man chuckled at his own little joke and took a long swig of his mug before setting it back down on the table with a loud clack.

“I am mage myself, though most do not know,” the Thief Lord informed Jack, who glanced at the man in disbelief. “Used to be High Earth Mage, but that was before the Darkening. Now I am the Thief Lord, St. North.”

Jack almost dropped his mug in surprise. This man was Nicholas St. North. _The_ Nicholas St. North, who had helped the Archmage lead the war against Pitch Black and bring the world out of the Darkening. Jack felt like he ought to stand, but repressed the urge. He had not been part of the Nine Sanctums hierarchy for years now.

“I’m Jack. Jack Frost,” Jack said into the expectant silence. “Um, Winter Mage.”

“Ha! Frosty Winter Mage. And with white hair!” North laughed loudly and clapped his hands together once. “It is good!”

Jack grinned a little. The man’s good humour was contagious. Perhaps he would stay for a while.

He was still going to freeze the arms off those other three.

 

 

Before the crowd could converge on them in their growing anger, Sandy reached for his Sand, fighting through his own fatigue to form a golden cloud under his feet and raise himself into the air. Beside him, Toothiana soared up with the soft fluttering of her wings. Both mage and Fae were too exhausted from the night spent fighting off shadow creatures by the city gates to manage much more than a couple meters of height and Sandy wondered exactly how he was supposed to calm the crowd without the strength to form pictures out of his Sand. Particularly for a group of people unwilling to listen.

Toothiana looked over at him frantically, her flight dipping oddly every now and then as she forced her wings to keep beating even as her muscles screamed in protest.

“What can we do?” she asked the Sand Mage and sandy shrugged, suddenly far too tired to care what happened.

A small explosion at the edge of the crowd suddenly had people yelping in fear and scattering back from the being that had approached.

“How about you all get back an’ let me take these two outta town for ya,” a large rabbit drawled in an accented voice and Sandy almost cried as he recognized his old comrade-in-arms. “Seems like a reasonable idea, right?”

The Pooka was holding another of his explosives in one paw and the crowd nearest him eyed.

“They didn’t do anything!” a young voice protested hotly and Sandy spotted an angry Jamie marching his way forward, pushing people aside until he emerged into the corridor of space between Sandy and Aster.

“I know that an’ you know that,” the Pooka drawled, looking irritated. “But sometimes people get stupid when they’re in groups.”

The crowd murmured in muted anger, unwilling to antagonize the creature holding a bomb.

“C’mon you two,” Aster motioned for Sandy and Toothiana to come toward him and Sandy released his sand-cloud, dropping to the ground and walking over to the Pooka, Toothiana hot on his heels. “Now we’re gonna leave you all to your business. I suggest you don’t follow.”

The Pooka turned and started walking, Sandy and Toothiana alongside. As they made their way through the town and out the western edge, heading back toward central Manen, Aster turned to Sandy with serious eyes.

“Mate, you’ve got some serious explaining to do.”

 

 

Jack was led to a small room in North’s large cabin, bare except for a small bed and a table with a wash basin and mirror. Compared to the house he had broken into it seemed like nothing, but after the pit and a life spent on the road it was everything. Jack smiled brightly at the Thief King and waved as he retired into the room.  
Earlier in the night, when North had somehow managed to get Jack to open up about his past (getting kicked out of the Tower, few to no childhood memories, a life spent on the road) the man had loudly insisted that Jack stay – “As my apprentice, another mage to keep these ruffians organized!” And Jack had to admit the offer was seriously tempting. A home, a real one, for the first time since he had been forced from the Tower as a child.

Jack fell into the blankets and drifted off with a smile on his face.

_Jack stretched out over the bedding in his tent, naked and luxuriating in the soft blankets and his slow, humming arousal. He heard his companion chuckle near the front of the tent as the other divested himself of his weapons and armor._

_“Like a cat ya are, I swear,” Aster said, green eyes raking over Jack appreciatively._

_Jack smirked and wiggled his eyebrows at the Pooka. They had won a victory today, pushed Pitch’s forces back into the Bogwoods, inching ever closer to ending the war that had raged for most of Jack’s life. He reached his own hand down to wrap around himself, his lover taking too long and Jack giving in to his teenage hormones._

_Furred hands wrapped around his wrists, tugging them up and over his head as a warm body descended on him._

_“Excuse me,” Aster teased lightly, rubbing their bodies together as Jack moaned lowly. “But that’s my job.”_

_Jack squirmed until he could wrap his legs around the Pooka’s hips and then arched up, pressing their bodies completely flush._

_“So do your job,” Jack laughed, sticking his tongue out playfully._

_Aster swooped down and sucked the offending muscle into his mouth, front teeth scraping over it and sending a corresponding shudder down Jack’s body. Aster chuckled low in his throat and pulled away from a pouting Jack._

_“I’ve got another job for you, Frostbite,” the Pooka said affectionately, tossing a packet onto Jack’s stomach. Jack picked it up and realized it was a pack of cooking oil._

_“Did you raid the mess tent?” Jack asked incredulously, trying to imagine the straight-laced rabbit sneaking around the camp. “I am such a bad influence.”_

_The Pooka rolled his eyes and Jack ripped open the sachet and coated his fingers reaching around inserting a finger, wriggling happily. Soft fur pressed up against his front as Aster laid over him again, hand wrapping around Jack’s arousal, mindful of his claws and pumping slowly._

_“Sweet Moon, if you keep that up we’re not gonna make it to the fun part,” Jack panted, stretching himself as quickly as he could. “I’m good. I’m good. Please, just.”_

_Aster grabbed Jack by the hips and flipped him, taking a moment to coat himself with the last of the cooking oil before sliding home in one smooth thrust. Jack’s breathy moan hitched up an octave at the end as Aster bottomed out. Without pause, knowing from experience exactly how much patience the teen had, Aster set a brutal pace._

_“Yes, yes...oh Moon, Aster.”_

_It had been far too long. Too many nights spent patrolling, too many times where only one of them was back in camp to sleep, what sleep could be found while worrying about the warm body that wasn’t in bed. The slick slide of their bodies joining and parting, heat and friction building with every obcene slurp and hitched breath. Jack felt his orgasm rushing up from the base of his spine, forcing its way out of his body. He screamed..._

Jack sat up with a cry, panting and sitting in a pool of cooling semen. He stared at the wall in front of him, his face slowly going from confused to horrified. He had dreamed about sex. With that _Pooka_. He gripped his hair and curled forward over his knees, sucking in breaths and trying to calm himself down.

Then another thought struck him. He didn’t know Bunnymund’s first name...so why on earth had his dream-self called the Pooka ‘Aster’?


	8. And So They Gather

## Chapter Eight

The night of the new moon fell slowly over the land, the light of the stars not enough to break into the deep shadows creeping across the land. The guards along the walls of Userees paced nervously, torches held high and flinching at every creak and groan that came out of the dark trees of the Bogwood. Reinforcements were on their way from Manengrad, but it would be days before they arrived.

In the houses, lights burned in most rooms and windows and doors were locked as tightly as possible, curtains drawn to keep out the night. Parents sat up late, tired eyes watching children that hadn’t woken all day, not even a twitch.

As the night wore on and eyes grew heavier, candles dimming as they burnt down, some eyes opened and stared blankly at the ceilings over their heads. The young boy that the Healer had looked over that morning swung his legs over the side of the bed, the rims of his blue irises tainted by swirling shadows and his face blank. He wandered to the open door of his room and stared down the hall at the lights still dancing in the living room, where his parents no doubt sat half-asleep in their chairs.

Ignoring the warmth and light and family that waited, the boy walked silently down the hall to the locked door that led to the family store beneath. If anyone had been around to see, they wouldn’t have been able to explain how the boy made it through that door. The lock never moved, the door never opened. The boy’s body thinned and slipped through the cracks, sifting around the door until he had reformed on the other side.

The same process was repeated at both the door at the base of the stairs and the one that led out onto the empty street. At the far end there was a bobbing light – one of the guard patrols walking the city – and the boy ducked into the alleyways, weaving his way to the eastern wall that kept back the darkness of the Bogwood.

As he crept along, other small figures appeared out of the night, falling into step with him until all the children of Userees stood in ranks along the base of the wall, staring up with shadow-stained eyes at its heights. As one, the first row moved forward, bare feet and hands flooding with nightmare sand. The pointed tips caught on the stone of the wall and the children began to scale, eyes still focused on the dark, moonless sky above. At the top, the black sand retreated from the limbs and sprouted out the back as bat-like wings rippled out of their shoulders.

The first rank of children lit off into the night toward the deep shadows of the trees of the Bogwood as the second rank reached the top. This continued for several minutes, rank after rank of expressionless children, until the last stood along the wall with their wings flared. Among them was a small girl with bright blonde hair.

As the rest of the children in her rank lit off, she hesitated for a moment, the shadows in her eyes flickering to a bright gold. Confused, she glanced around, squeaking in terror as she found herself balanced on the high ledge. The second fear caught her in its grip, the gold in her eyes was swallowed once more by shadow and the girl leapt off to catch up with the other children.

 

 

Sandy scratched at the growing black blots on his hands – a nervous habit, he hadn’t had one since the war – and watched the Pooka contemplate their campfire. He had just finished his story, from the summons of the Archmage all the way until the cursed children. He could barely feel his magic he was so tired. Aster had yet to say anything. Sandy couldn’t imagine what it must be like to find out the mage responsible for the massacre of his entire people was free to wander once more.

“So Pitch has finally broken the Binding,” Aster finally muttered, dragging his paws across his face wearily. “Figured he would eventually.”

Sandy shrugged helplessly. Toothiana sat up from where she was preening her feathers and cleared her throat.

“Technically, Pitch hasn’t completely broken the Bindings,” she said, smoothing a few more feathers into place. “They are merely fraying, which is how he has woken, but is also the reason why he has not yet managed to remove himself from the Dreaming.”

“Then why have you been brought from the Dreaming?” the Pooka questioned, a frown twisting his already serious expression. “Woulda made more sense to have an ally that can actually reach that blasted Shadow Mage.”

“Pitch was smart about his wakening,” Toothiana murmured, a deep sadness marring her features. “He took the Dreaming. Most of the Fae – perhaps all by now – have been captured or corrupted. It is no longer safe to enter the Dreaming.”

The silence after that was even gloomier, the three companions staring into the empty heat of the flames, the light barely enough to pierce the darkness of the moonless night.

“How are we supposed to fight a man we can’t even reach,” the Pooka finally voiced the questioned that weighed so heavily on Sandy’s mind.

Pulling himself together and reaching for his magic, Sandy managed a rather weak image of a ragged cloth with his sand. He reached out and tugged lightly at one of the threads and the entire cloth unraveled, the golden sand falling away and fading.

“Break the Bindings?” Aster said with a quirked brow. “After everything we went through?”

“It’s the only way to draw Pitch into the waking world,” Toothiana insisted. “But breaking the Binding presents its own problems. We need the mages who offered sacrifice in order to reclaim what they gave.”

“I don’t see how that’s a problem,” the rabbit scoffed. “We’ve got Sandy right here. Just need to go see the Archmage.”

“It’s not that simple,” the Fae shook her head in frustration. “Sandy has records of his own from the war and the Binding...there were three mages. Sight, Voice, and Memory. The problem is that Memory not only took the mage’s memory, but also everyone _else’s_ memory of that mage.”

Sandy nodded at Toothiana’s words and dug his journal and the painting out of his bag. He offered them to Aster, pointing at the small boy in the picture then flipping to one of the passages that concerned Aster and Jack.

The Pooka frowned and began to read.

_We’ve made the final preparations for the Binding, all that’s left is to enter the Dreaming and confront Pitch._

_It seems like a dream itself, the idea that this war could be over; we’ve been fighting it for so long. Years. The sacrifices to the Binding will be great though. I suppose I should get used to writing, for I will be giving my voice. The Archmage has offered up his sight. It is the last volunteer that I mourn for, though. He will give his memory. All of it, including our memories of him. I wish it weren’t Jack who had stepped forward when we were deciding who would take up these tasks. He is so young. I doubt he has many memories that aren’t of the war._

_In that way, I suppose it is a kindness that he won’t remember these years of his life._

_I spoke with him, before we all retired for the night. He doesn’t plan to tell Aster. ‘What’s the point?’ He said. ‘It’s not like he’ll remember me telling him anyway.’ And it’s the truth. No one will remember what he will sacrifice, or remember him and what he will give for all of us to be safe again. He probably won’t tell his father either and I cannot fault him for that choice. Nicholas would never let his boy go through with the Binding. I remember how hard Jack had to fight just to be allowed to help with the war efforts at all._

_This will be my last entry in this journal. It seems right that the war and everything to do with it will be put to rest._

Aster hand passed over the faded script, a troubled expression on his face. Sandy knew exactly how he felt. A troubling guilt deep in the pit of the stomach and an inexplicable emptiness in the chest, like part of his heart had been missing these past three centuries and he hadn’t noticed.

“We need to find St. North,” Aster finally said, green eyes flitting up to look at the other two. “Last I heard, he was missing.”

Sandy nodded and felt the enormity of their quest pressing down on him. And every moment they struggled to find their way, Pitch grew in power.

 

 

One Nicholas St. North, retired High Earth Mage and reigning Thief Lord of the Northern Forest watched his new protégé wander the main encampment with a pensive frown. He had thought that he had long lost his fatherly instincts.

Over three hundred years since his wife, a young Summer Mage, had died in childbirth. Almost as much since his son had died in Pitch’s rise to power, the day he had all but destroyed the Mages of the Nine Sanctums and their precious Tower. Nicholas couldn’t even remember the boy’s face, had no pictures of him to preserve the memory.

He had thought that the death of his son, and then next ten long years of war had numbed his heart. But this little Winter Mage, Jack Frost, with white hair and a scant few streaks of brown showing through. Something about the young man brought up old feelings, reopened old aching wounds in his heart. He should have sent the mage on his way when he had first laid eyes on him, banished him to wander the northern ice sheets like he had done so many other trespassers. But he couldn’t. 

Every time he looked at that pale face, he could see his own sadness and longing reflected in pale brown eyes. And with every grin from the boy that wasn’t forced, he felt some small piece of his old self – the Nicholas that laughed and joked and loved his life – click back into place.

He would never have his old life back, never have his son back. This he knew and had come to accept over the long centuries. But perhaps he was finally ready to build something new.

Raucous laughter flew up from a group of burly mercenaries and Nick could see Jack at the very centre looking somewhat dazed, but with a sheepish grin stretching his face. The men had taken an immediate liking to the sly Winter Mage and were intent on hammering in some skills other than thieving and magic. The boy had put his staff aside and was trying his best to learn some hand to hand combat. Nick wasn’t sure if it was fair to match the boy up against a man thrice his size, but Jack seemed to be enjoying himself.

For a moment their eyes met over the long distance and the scene changed before his eyes. The brown streaks faded from Jack’s hair, leaving it a bright white like new snow, and his eyes cleared into the crystal blue of a glacial lake. Laughter danced in those eyes.

Just as suddenly as it had come on the image faded and Nicholas scratched his head in wonder while he watched the men once more try and show Jack how to break a man’s nose while being grappled.

 

 

Jack hurt in places he hadn’t even known he had. But it was a good ache, the kind you get after pushing yourself hard and achieving. He had left one of North’s mercenaries with a black eye earlier. After the men around them had recovered from their shock, they had cheered and dragged Jack off to dinner and given him his first taste of real beer. Not the watery kind Jack had once tried at an inn (the kind of inn he could afford), but strong and both sweet and bitter all at once. It had sat warmly in his stomach.

Still sat warm in his stomach, and his limbs too if he were truthful. Jack giggled a little as he tripped over one of the fur rugs scattered across the floor in North’s front room while he tried to make it to his bed. His head felt like it was floating, pulling his body along with it, which would explain the way the floor seemed to be uneven in parts.

Jack finally found his door frame, leaning against it as he fiddled with the handle until the wood swung open and he tumbled inside. Dragging himself up using the bed frame, Jack flopped into his blankets and yawned happily, already half asleep.

A pair of reflective eyes peered through the door at the boy, considering, then one of the two or three cats (Jack thought there might be three) wandered into the room and hopped up on the bed. Before lying down, the cat approached the face of the half-asleep mage and sniffed curiously, its whiskers tickling along his nose and cheeks.

Giggling loudly, Jack shoved at the cat, knocking the incensed animal to the floor wear it flipped its tail snottily and strode from the room. Jack flapped his arm around a little more and spoke to the dark room just as he finally drifted off, smiling happily.

“Aster, quit it!”


	9. Shadows Walk

## Chapter Nine

_Jack sat once more in the desolate land of rocks and icy spires, the air unbreakably still and the moon absent from a permanently twilight sky. In the distance he could see snow swirling and a figure dancing in the white flakes, laughter tinkling and echoing in the deep silence._

_Rising from his seat on the ice, Jack walked toward the distant figure. With each step he took, the landscape whipped by, blurring around him and all too soon he could make out the joyous and playful figure. It was the other-him, white hair pure and brilliant in the half-dark. He made eye contact with his doppelganger and the other boy smiled and waved at him, stopping his whirling dance to step toward Jack._

_In the next instant the other Jack was directly in front of him and leaning closer, his bright blue eyes sparkling with mischief and hands reaching. Jack stumbled back, but not before cool hands wrapped around his upper arms, searing him through his shirt. Jack gasped in pain and tried to wrench himself away, but the Jack-but-not was stronger than he looked and Jack could only watch as the other leaned in until their noses were almost brushing. Giving Jack one more impish smile, the boy blew a chilly breath into Jack’s face, tendrils of frost on the breath worming their way into Jack’s eyes._

_Jack cried out in pain and tried again to get away, only to find that the other boy was no longer there. Rubbing at his burning eyes, Jack blinked and looked around at the empty landscape. A flash in one of the ice spires caught his eye and Jack approached with unease. He didn’t want to see what was reflected there. But he had to, a compulsion in his very core dragging him step by staggering step closer to the spire._

_As he drew level with it, he saw the other Jack again and instinctively flinched back. The image did too and in a moment of horrifying clarity, Jack realized the truth. There was no other him. It had always been just him._

_The icy world cracked around him, darkness swirling out of the rifts as everything fell apart._

_He was in a battle, shadows swirling around him and figures lying dead at his feet, cries of pain and terror filling the air. Jack struck out with his staff at an approaching nightmare, frost blasting the creature into little fragments._

_He was sitting in a sterile white bed inside a tent. The air smelled of rubbing alcohol and sickness and blood. A young healer was wrapping his arm where a large cut, cleaned and sutured, stretched from his elbow to just below his shoulder._

_He was sitting around a campfire, his father on his right and his uncle Sandy to his left, laughing at one of the other warrior mages dramatic re-enactment of the prank he had pulled on the newly arrived soldiers, fresh from the training camps on the outskirts of Manengrad._

_He was angry, screaming at his father across the room. He couldn’t just sit in the capital and pretend the world wasn’t falling apart. He had passed his combat training, he was ready to fight. His father shook his head resolutely and Jack stormed from the room, locking himself in his bedroom. Later that night, he clambered out the window and let the winter winds carry him over the city and on eastward._

_He sat up from the patch of mud he had been thrown down in, wiping his face and glaring at the bastard of a Pooka who was supposed to be helping him train for battle. The other laughed at him derisively and told him to go home – “This is war, kid, not a playground.”_

_The images swirled around him faster and faster and Jack broke down and screamed._

He hit the ground with a thump, flailing desperately at the restricting sheets twisted around his body. As soon as he was free, Jack slumped back against the floor, breathing heavily and staring at the ceiling. His dreams had been slow and easy since he had started living with North and he had thought his restless nights were over.

Apparently not. Jack closed his eyes, the confusing images dancing around in his mind. People he knew. People he had never seen before. Things that were at once familiar and completely strange. Jack wondered if he was losing his mind.

Getting up and staggering around the room, Jack gathered his clothing and dressed himself for the day. He headed over to his small washing table, reaching for the bowl of cool water and glancing at himself in the mirror. His hands missed the bowl, knocking the ceramic to the floor where it shattered, water seeping along the floorboards. His hands found grip along the edges of the table, knuckles white and arms shaking as he stared at his reflection, willing it to disappear.

In the mirror was the boy from his dreams. But it was his reflection. Jack raised a trembling hand to his face, touching his cheek lightly just beneath his eye. The image in the mirror copied the motion exactly and exhaled shakily just as Jack did.

Pale fingers gripped desperately at white hair, no hint of brown left in it. Pale blue eyes, like little gems of arctic water, stared back at Jack.

 

 

Aster took first watch their third night on the road north. The fire was banked low and the shadows, deep even with a sliver of moon overhead, stretched out from the bushes around them. Aster had insisted on travelling cross-country instead of taking the road back to the capital before turning north toward Onnaan. It would cut days off their travels, but would leave them out in the open each night. But Aster hoped that Pitch would be focused on amassing power, rebuilding his army. That would keep him focused on the settled areas, not the wilds they were trekking through.

Worries over what may lurk in the darkness was not what kept him up and pushed him into taking firs watch each night. It was the picture of a small boy, blue eyes bright and happy beneath white bangs. A face he should, apparently, know quite well. Well enough for it to have been important to mention him in conjunction with the choices of a mage he could no longer remember.

Jack.

The name made something in his stomach coil painfully. He had read more of the passages from Sandy’s journal concerning Jack. Enough to piece together that the boy had been St. North’s son, a Winter Mage, and possibly his lover. Aster wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Especially when he couldn’t stop picturing the nuisance of a Winter Mage that had snowed him in a couple weeks back.

The resemblance to the kid in the picture was uncanny, but imperfect. The Winter Mage’s hair had been a mottled white and brown and Bunnymund didn’t know enough about Winter Mages in general to know whether white hair was a common side effect or not. The eyes hadn’t matched though; the child in the painting had been blue-eyed like no one he’d ever seen and the young man he had met had brown eyes.

But the more he considered it, the more he couldn’t deny the blatant similarities. He could easily see how the features of the child in the photo could have morphed into a slim and pale youth. Long limbs, slender body. But really it was the nose and mouth that had him double guessing himself.

And if he was right, if the mage he had met was in fact the Jack from the journal and the picture...Aster had looked right into that face and hadn’t found anything familiar. Had defended the mage from a nightmare and hadn’t felt anything even close to déjà vu. It made him feel oddly guilty in a way he couldn’t pass off, even with the excuse of a powerful Binding holding back the memories.

There was one thing Aster knew he would have to do, and that was tell Sandy and Toothiana about his suspicions. Especially with them heading toward Onnaan, where the Winter Mage had mentioned spending the summer. Nicholas might not be the only St. North waiting for them at the end of their road.

A rustle in the bushes had Aster reaching for his boomerangs, his ears swivelling around trying to locate the source. A moment later, he relaxed. The sound was too small for any of the local predators; possibly a young deer or something similarly sized. A quick movement in the bushes had him squinting, wondering what had just run by their camp. It looked like...

Aster snorted to himself and leaned his elbows on his legs. He obviously needed some sleep, so it was a good thing his watch was almost over. A child in the woods, this far from civilization of any kind. He chuckled softly and moved to wake the Sand Mage.

 

 

Jack spent the day avoiding the camp of the Thief Lord, wandering the fringes just within sight of the outermost cabins. There was a strong wind in the trees coming in off the ice sheets and carrying the chill of ice even as midsummer rapidly approached. He wasn’t entirely sure what time it was – the sun was up near constantly except for a scant few hours in the deepest part of the night – but he knew he’d missed breakfast and possibly even lunch.

Stopping by a pond, almost a small lake, Jack stared gloomily at his reflection. It hadn’t changed since this morning in his room, a stranger’s blue eyes watching him from the watery surface. He missed his old face, the one he had worn to bed last night. He had been Jack-the-barely-functional-mage for as long as he could remember and it was all he really had, just himself and his staff. At least he still had his staff, Jack chuckled humourlessly.

And that brought him to the other reason he was wandering the woods. It wasn’t just his appearance that was changing; it was something inside him too. Something hovering in the back of his mind and haunting his dreams. Jack traced the outline of his face, finger hovering just shy of disturbing the water’s surface.

More and more the life he lived in his dreams seemed more real than the life he lived now. Which was ridiculous. Jack had been out walking the world for at least a century by now, although it was hard to track time living as nomadically as he did. But he had watched the rapid turn-over of the short lives of unGifted, marked time as he returned through more familiar towns by the changing faces around him. So at least a hundred years, probably more. And now just over a month of odd dreams that were almost like memories. Jack wished they were memories, that he had a life with a family, friends...a lover (although he was still somewhat disturbed over his mind choosing that Pooka to fill that particular space).

Jack was broken out of his musings by a twisting shadow. He turned, glancing around for the source, his mind dredging up images of that nightmare he and Bunnymund had found. A gust of wind blew through the trees and the shadows danced beneath the bright afternoon sun. Jack rolled his eyes at himself. Not only were his dreams turning him into a morose pile of pathetic moping, they were making him jumpy.

His stomach gurgled insistently and Jack decided it was about time he found some food and do his best to ignore the odd looks he was sure to gather over his changed appearance. He turned to make his way back into the large encampment, but paused and turned as movement again caught his eye. Something was making the shadows shift and Jack was sure this time that it hadn’t been caused by the wind.

He crept closer to where he had seen the movement, staff held out protectively in front of him. He frowned as he saw a shadow on the ground that didn’t belong. It looked like the silhouette of a man, but as Jack glanced around he saw no one who could be casting it. Jack stopped his approach, a feeling of apprehension rising in his stomach. He knew that shadow...but where had he seen it before?

“My, my,” a soft voice carried out of the forest and Jack jumped; he recognized the taunting tone. “Just look at you. So much more like you used to be and yet still no one at all.”

“Who are you?” Jack demanded, eyes trained on the shadow, twitching every time it moved. “Show yourself!”

“Oh but I am showing myself, Jack,” the voice answered, the shadow wandering along tree trunks and across the ground as if it were pacing. “As much as I can, trapped in the Dreaming as I am.”

Jack swallowed, the hairs on the back of his neck standing straight. He could only think of one person who would consider himself trapped in the Dreaming. But that man was supposed to be Bound in sleep.

“Pitch Black,” Jack whispered, his breathy words loud in the sudden silence as the wind died away.

“Very good, Jack,” the voice crooned at him, the shadow slipping around and Jack spinning desperately to keep it in sight. “But you’ll have to do better.”

“What do you want?” Jack demanded, true confusion colouring his tone. What could the most powerful Shadow Mage in recorded history want with some dysfunctional Winter Mage?

“What indeed,” Pitch mused, his shadow pausing. “I want to pull at the threads and watch them unravel. I want to watch _you_ unravel, Jack. You and your pathetically selfless little heart.”

Pitch paused for a moment and then let out a darkly mirthful laugh.

“Not that you would know.”

“I don’t understand,” Jack said, his voice sounding small and unsure even to his own ears.

“No,” Pitch cackled gleefully. “But you will, little Jack, you will.”

Shadows rose between the trees, the writhing forms of nightmares crawling out from under logs and bushes. Jack turned and ran for the camp.

“Run back to daddy, Jackie boy,” the taunting words followed him, laughter echoing in the trees.

 

 

There were candles and lanterns everywhere in the camp that night and double patrols by order of the Thief Lord. Jack hadn’t expected much except maybe some laughter and maybe a friendly “you need more sleep.” But Jack had forgotten that Nicholas St. North had once been more than a Thief Lord. Or rather, he hadn’t forgotten, but it hadn’t been at the forefront of his mind when he had explained his encounter in the woods.

It was lucky that he had adjusted easily to the long hours of sunlight and the half-dark hours that made up the night this far north, otherwise he doubted he would find rest with the candles in his room flickering brightly. Or maybe he was just exhausted from having adrenaline pumping through his system all day, on edge ever since he had been chased from the forest.

Whichever the case, Jack felt his eyelids droop heavily as he rested in his bed, pulling him into Dreams, He only hoped there wasn’t a certain shadow waiting there for him...

_He fired a blast of ice shards over his shoulder as he ran full pelt through the forest, his companion flinging his boomerangs beside him. Cries echoed back, the sweet sound of nightmares falling under their attacks._

_It wasn’t enough. Every time Jack looked back there seemed to be just as many of the creatures as before and his breath was starting to come in painful gasps, the coppery tang of blood on his saliva. His foot caught on a root hidden in the darkness of night and Jack went down hard, only a hand under his armpit keeping him upright._

_“Come on, get your feet moving,” Aster’s voice urged him on and Jack forced himself back up and into motion, pausing only a moment to fire off more icy spikes._

_Ahead and off to their left, Jack could see bright patches, where the thick trees of the Bogwood were thin enough to let moonlight filter through. An idea flicked through the mindless need to run, run and live, please don’ let it end here..._

_“This way,” Jack all but shouted and tugged at the Pooka’s arm._

_They changed course, pushing through the slim, whip-like stems of willow bushes and Jack could smell the dankness of stagnant water. His hopes rose. If he had learned anything in his time on the front lines it was that woody bushes and water meant the swampy clearings that dotted the Bogwood. And a clearing would mean room enough to get them out of this. Hopefully. He’d never cast the spell to carry more than himself._

_As they burst through the last line of trees and out into the open, the moon shining down of them, he heard Aster swear and try and pull him back under the cover of the trees._

_“They’ll catch us in the open,” the Pooka snapped as Jack tugged back and threw himself further into the clearing._

_“Just trust me!” Jack begged, trying to get Aster to follow him._

_The rabbit hesitated for a moment longer before cursing and hauling them both into the centre of the small marsh._

_“Now what?” the Pooka demanded, looking back to where the nightmares were breaking through the trees, their shrieks of victory rising as they caught sight of their prey out in the open._

_Jack let out a piercing whistle and whipped his staff around in a wide arc. The wind picked up drastically around them and Jack heard Aster yell out as their feet left the ground. The magic rushed through him, burning in his veins and for a moment as they soared over the Bogwood, jack was worried he’d put too much into the spell and was going to be burnt up in his own magic._

_Then it was over, the wind dropped them back into the trees and they crashed to the ground, the night silent around them except for their harsh breathing. Jack went to push himself up, but only managed to slump awkwardly against a tree, his limbs like jelly, aching and burning from his headlong rush through the woods and subsequent spellwork._

_“You alright, kid,” Aster inquired as he rolled into a sitting position beside the worn out mage._

_“Yeah,” Jack managed to spit out between panted breaths._

_“Good,” the Pooka said, equally out of breath. “Because I’m going to kill you once I feel like moving.”_

_The combination of those words, his rushing adrenalin, and the fact that he had already been so certain he’d never live through the night pushed Jack over his last limit. Bubbles of laughter rose up his throat and soon Jack was rolled off his tree trunk support and back onto the ground, body shaking in true, from-the-gut laughs. Through watery eyes squinted up from his mirth, Jack saw Aster staring at him before the Pooka threw his head back and joined Jack._

_He wasn’t sure how long they just lay there laughing, but by the time he finally had himself back under control, his limbs were recovered enough that he could push himself back upright, even though his stomach now ached._

_“So much for an easy scouting mission to start you off,” the Pooka mused still chortling a little beside Jack._

_Jack rolled his eyes and turned to snap off a smart retort. But the words died on his lips as he found himself almost nose-to-nose with his superior officer. Blue and green eyes bore into each other, panting mouths close enough to be sharing air. Jack licked his lips nervously and reached up a hand to card through fur that was softer than it looked. Aster stared at the young mage for a few moments in wonder. Then furred hands were sinking into Jack’s hair and he was dragged the last couple inches between them until his lips were pressed against more of that soft fur, a wet tongue lapping at them._

_Perhaps it was just the last of the adrenaline, or maybe the startling fact that they were both alive and unharmed, but Jack pushed himself into the warm fur, wrapped himself up in the larger body._

Jack snorted softly in his sleep, a happy smile plastered across his face and a light giggle forcing its way out. The door creaked open slightly and bright blue eyes peered in to check on the boy. Nickolas smiled as he saw the happy face of a peaceful Dreamer. He turned to leave, but paused as a familiar name slipped through Jack’s lips.

“Aster. Please, I...” Jack drifted off into mumbles and Nicholas flushed as he realized what kind of dream Jack must be having.

He was curious though...where had the young mage met the Pooka? And what exactly was that Pooka doing with the humans he met these days?


	10. And So We Meet Again?

## Chapter Ten

Jack sat quietly on the front steps of North’s cabin, watching the forest and all its shadows nervously. Every time a breeze blew or an animal rustled in the bushes he would tense, waiting for that taunting voice and dark figure to reappear. It had been the same routine for the last few days ever since his episode in the woods. His study was so intense he barely registered it when someone joined him on the steps, twitching violently when they loudly cleared their throat.

He turned to find North watching him speculatively, wide eyes taking in his figure and Jack ran a hand through his hair self-consciously. 

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” Jack finally sighed quietly into the silence between them, rubbing at his face. 

North finally looked away from him, scanning the camp slowly as he considered how to broach the subject. From the little he had come to know of Jack since the boy had been dropped before him it was obvious that the boy did not like talking about his past or his troubles.

“I am thinking you are referring to more than just some tiny colour changes,” Nicholas said slowly, reaching up to tug on a fly-away strand of Jack’s hair. He had pointedly not commented on it the day Jack had come tearing back into camp yelling about nightmares in the forest; after all, nightmares were somewhat more problematic than a random shift in pigmentation.

“Maybe a little,” Jack mumbled, hands still on his face. He sighed and let them fall away. “Maybe a lot. I’ve been having strange dreams. Seeing people I don’t know, but actually do. Kind of like another world...or another life.”

“Well,” North sighed in response. “I am no Sand Mage and the mind is not something easily understood, nor the Dreams it produces. But the physical, now that I understand. I am an Earth Mage, a Creator. And I can see the old threads of a broken spell on you.”

Jack looked at him in alarm, his hands twitching as if to brush away the threads North spoke of. It was far too reminiscent of Pitch’s words to him in the forest.

“It is nothing to worry over,” Nick held up his hands in reassurance. “It is Moon Magic, not Shadow. Pitch has worked nothing on you.”

Jack let out a deep breath and forced himself to relax. Perhaps it had been some long gone prank from his time in the Tower dorms. He couldn’t shrug off his discomfort completely though; there was something uncomfortably familiar, sitting with North like this. For some reason it was easy to talk to the man, like an old confidant.

“It’s my head I’m worried about,” Jack laughed dryly, no trace of humour in his tone. “The dreams are so vivid and life outside them seems pale, like I’m missing something.”

North’s brow creased in worry, watching the younger mage’s internal turmoil play over his face. The boy’s words rang true to him, reflected his own thoughts. Thoughts that had haunted him from the moment Pitch had been Bound, like his life afterwards was always missing something that had been intrinsic.

“We’ve done this before.”

North jumped at the words and looked over at Jack. The words had been unexpected and made very little sense.

“Sorry?”

“Nevermind,” Jack shook his head, a wry grin on his lips and some of his good-naturedness shining through. “It’s nothing, just an odd thought.”

Nicholas hummed in acceptance, but puzzled over the words, storing them away to think on later.

“Do you know,” he began conversationally, giving Jack a funny look. “That you talk in your sleep?”

Jack choked a little and stared at North in horror.

“I what!?”

“Yes,” North continued. “It has left me curious. When did you come across Aster Bunnymund? I did not know the Pooka still wandered in Manen.”

Jack turned cherry red, confirming North’s suspicions about exactly how Jack had spent his time with the Pooka.

“A few weeks ago, bumped into the guy in a market, then again a little farther south,” Jack mumbled, his cheeks still a startling shade of scarlet. “We took out a nightmare that had been causing a village some issues and then he went off to Userees. At least, that’s where he said he was going.”

“And you did not go with him?” North prompted, knowing the boy was holding back.

“What? No,” Jack said, looking confused and more than a little embarrassed. “The guy couldn’t stand me, wouldn’t even give me the time of day. Barely even gave me his name.”

“And yet you call him by first name when you sleep,” North mused, holding in a loud chortle as Jack’s blush deepened.

“Oh Moon,” the boy swore softly, hiding his face in his hands. “What exactly have I been saying?”

“It was more how you said it, than what you said.”

Jack wanted to sink into the ground. He couldn’t imagine a more awkward conversation.

“So yeah, I’ve been having... _those_ dreams,” he managed to choke out through his fingers. “But we never _did_ that. He never even gave me his first name. That’s what I meant about my dreams being odd. I know things about people I’ve never met or barely know...and I don’t know why.”

“You are certain?” North asked, looking concerned once more, the teasing gone from his voice and face. He pointedly ignored the rapid shift in subject Jack had tossed into the conversation. Such dreams were personal and Nick had no need for details.

“Yes,” Jack hissed out in irritation. “I just...there’s something _wrong_ with me.”

Before North could refute that statement, Phil called from across the camp and used a quick gesture to indicate the problem. North frowned at the interruption but stood, patting Jack on the shoulder.

“There is a group of travellers within our borders,” North informed the boy. “We will talk more later.”

Jack nodded and watched the older mage walk away.

 

 

The Winter Mage hadn’t been in Onnaan, though when he had asked around some of the guards had mentioned seeing the young man come into town. His appearance was distinctive enough to garner some attention, if only in passing. But that had been almost two weeks before. The boy had disappeared and none of the guards could remember seeing him leave.

It set Aster’s teeth on edge. There were far too many pieces missing to the puzzle he was trying to solve. And to make matters even more frustrating, he had been unable to tell Sandy and the Faerie about his suspicions. In his head, he knew that the fact he might already know their errant mage, the one person they needed to find in order to draw Pitch into the waking world before he grew too powerful (and maybe he already was, but Bunnymund refused to think along that line) was a valuable piece of information. It made sense to share this with the others. But every time he tried to start the conversation something painful in his heart restricted. It was the agony of losing his people, the aching loneliness of walking the world with no home but echoing barren warrens, and the guilt of forgetting (abandoning, his mind hissed at him) the one person who might have needed him. The one person he needed more than anything.

He didn’t even know if the Winter Mage was actually the ‘Jack’ they were searching for, but his mind had already latched onto those features and pasted them into every waking and dreaming thought. In his dreams, he and Jack walked the world together; laughing, walking, loving, holding. And he refused to think on how many nights he woke with wet fur lining his eyes. By day his mind tortured him with his callous words and rough treatment during the short time he had spent in the young mage’s presence. Every barbed word dug at his insides until he felt like there was nothings left but shreds within. And each time his mind replays the boy’s monotone “whatever” as he walked away, he wished he had found even the smallest kindness in his heart. He wished he had offered the boy more than scorn.

Aster made a rough noise, kicking at the detritus on the forest floor, his mood the same as it had been since he had lost the Winter Mage’s trail in Onnaan, blacker than the Shadow Mage waiting for them in the Dreaming. Sandy and Toothiana had taken to walking with at least ten metres of space between him and them, and Aster could hardly blame them. He had given no explanation for his dourness (too much pain and guilt, he couldn’t) and had little room left in his already roiling inner turmoil to feel much regret on that front.

Still, he had gone on with Sandy’s original plan without complaint; they were two days into the Northern Forest on their search for St. North. Even during the height of summer, with more than eighteen hours of daylight each day, the land here was chilly. The trees were tall, but thin, the bushes beneath hardy and small, and the soil layer was thin over gravel and bedrock; a land bordering on the tundra that they would eventually hit if they continued north, just before the ice sheets. And they had little to show for it. St. North had disappeared up here years ago, so the best they could do was wander and hope for some clue that hadn’t been lost to the centuries. The only bright side to the entire ordeal was that they had yet to encounter any of the brigands, thieves, and unscrupulous mercenaries that called this forest home.

Just as he had this thought, the sound of shifting dirt under pressure and the quiet footsteps of people trying not to be noticed reached his ears and he tensed. Sandy and Toothiana had managed to get some distance ahead of him and he reached for his boomerangs and shouted out a warning.

“Sandy, we’ve got company!” he yelled, using his powerful hind legs to leap forward and close the distance to his companions, his boomerangs clutched and poised to be thrown.

Sandy instantly had Sand at the ready, swirling around his hands and Toothiana’s body started to shift, limbs lengthening and growing the golden fur and claws and the mountain lions that prowled these northern lands. Some of the burliest men Bunnymund had ever seen sprung from the trees (and how had they managed to hide their enormous bodies behind such scrawny trees?). The largest was clad in red and black leather and wielded a pair of wicked looking swords. Bunny’s war-trained mind kicked in and he noted the odd shimmer of the blades. Magic, his mind supplied, either spells cast on the blades, or the swords were a Creating of a very powerful Earth Mage.

At the last, his mind kicked into over-drive and his eyes flew up to take in a face he hadn’t seen in centuries, but was still as familiar to him as his own. Ahead he saw Sandy’s face explode into a smile and the small man started to hop up and down, waving frantically at the man. Aster decided on a more direct approach that might save them from being skewered. 

“St. North!” he bellowed and the man’s eyes finally seemed to really take them in.

“Sandy!” the old Earth Mage shouted (and Aster realized no amount of time would ever really teach the man volume control). “Bunny! It has been long time, yes?”

As soon as North had stopped his charge, the rest of the men had stumbled to a halt, exchanging confused glances (and Aster was more relieved than he cared to admit, it had been a long time since he had faced odds this far out of his favour). The looks only increased as Sandy practically floated over to North and embraced his old friend.

Aster walked up to Toothiana and patted the tense Queen on the shoulder.

“Ya might want to lose the claws,” he murmured, taking in the glances of North’s comrades. “These boys look a bit nervous.”

The Faerie nodded and she shifted back, fur turning back to bright plumage and delicate limbs. Bunnymund turned his attention back to the reunion of the two ex-High Mages.

“We will take this back to the camp,” St. North declared. “For you both to be here and accompanied by a Faerie, there must be good reason. And I have feeling I know what it is.”

 

 

Jack heard North’s return to the camp before he saw the man and he stood from where he still sat on the front steps of the cabin. He wove his way through the inner buildings until he caught sight of the party that had left to deal with the intruders. North was at the front, with three newcomers at his side. Two Jack did not recognize; a blonde man in worn, sun-bleached leather and the strangest woman he had ever seen. It wasn’t the strangers that caught his attention though; it was the tall Pooka walking along beside them looking just as grumpy as when Jack had last seen him.

Feeling his face heat, Jack turned and bolted toward the edges of the camp. There was no way he could face the Pooka when his dreams were so often filled with them wrapped together and sweaty. He had a horrible feeling that North was going to be keeping these guests around for a while, what with their earlier conversation, and he had no qualms over avoiding the encounter as long as possible. Even if it meant another possible encounter with Pitch. He could deal with Shadows. He was in no way prepared to deal with the chaos of his own mind.

 

 

Aster ignored the jubilant and rather one-sided conversation between Nicholas and Sandy as they neared the camp. It had already occurred to him, but seeing the camp confirmed it. They had found the stronghold of the northern thief den. And judging by the way the men deferred to Nick, he had a sneaking suspicion of who the King of Thief’s happened to be.

It was only his intense survey of the camp (best to be familiar with your surroundings when mired in a pit of criminals) that allowed him to spot the bright flash of white hair whipping around a building.

“Mind if I get familiar with the place?” Aster asked casually, interrupting North’s boisterous exchange with the Sand Mage. “Old habits and all.”

“Of course, of course,” Nicholas waved him off absently. “The cabin next to central hall is mine, we will see you there later.”

Bunny barely allowed himself the time to nod before he strode off in the direction the white hair had disappeared in, resisting the urge to sprint. He rounded the building where he’d seen the flash and found nothing. He forced down and irritated growl and continued his forced stroll through the camp. By the time he had circled the entirety of it, he admitted defeat and turned back toward the centre.

It was only an accident that he heard any noise at all, a brief lull in the camp sounds, no ringing of weaponry or tools, no shouted conversations. There was a shuffling sound in one of the bushes just along the edge of one of the cabins, a bare foot digging its toes into the soft layer of leaf and pine litter.

Aster whirled around and jabbed a hand into the bush, catching hold of work fabric and yanking. A bundle of flailing human limbs tumbled out with a yelp and Aster hauled the scrambling Winter Mage to his feet, hand firmly wrapped around an upper arm.

They stared at each other for long seconds, the mage turning redder and redder as time passed. Watching those cheeks flush, Aster felt his own body heat in response and hurriedly forced his mind onto the most pressing matter.

“What’s your name,” he demanded and the young man stared at him.

“What?”

_”What’s your name!_ ” Aster repeated, this time with urgency. He needed to know that this boy was Jack with a kind of desperation he hadn’t felt since he had stood in the sacked Shadow Mage stronghold bloody and searching for survivors.

The other hesitated again, emotions Aster couldn’t begin to sort out flying through blue eyes. In that instant he realized that the Winter Mage’s appearance had changed. He was now a perfect fit for the child in the painting. It was during this epiphany that the mage finally answered.

“Jack Frost.”


	11. So The Shadows Creep

## Chapter Eleven

The Pooka was silent for long seconds, bright green eyes staring at Jack’s face with a sort of naked desperation. It was almost awkward, the stillness between them and the burning heat Jack could feel through his shirt where Bunnymund gripped his upper arm. The urge to pull away was strong, his dreams flashing through his mind and leaving a hot tingle under his skin. But there was something profound lurking in the moments that passed between them and Jack couldn’t move. A heaviness closed in around his chest, squeezing the breath out of him and leaving a sense of anticipation.

Something flickered in the green depths and for a fleeting, almost hysterical moment Jack was certain the Pooka was capable of reading his mind and knew all of the wicked things his mind came up with in the dark of night. Could see how they tangled together in Jack’s mind, limbs wrapped around one another and lips pressed so tightly it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. But in the next moment that worry fled in the wake of hot breath on his face and his mind abruptly ceased functioning. There were green eyes hovering before his own, a soft nose so close he could feel the tiny hairs tickling the tip of his own. The Pooka had leaned in until they’re noses bumped with every other shared breath, eyes locked and watching each other searchingly.

“Jack,” Bunnymund breathed softly into the thick air between them and Jack let out a shuddering breath at hearing his name in that voice, wishing he dared move enough to pinch himself and make sure this was real.

The hand that wasn’t already gripping Jack tightly came up to brush softly up his face and along his cheek, lightly chilled skin heating under gentle fur and claws. Jack drew a shuddering breath, his eyes fluttering. The touch left sparks of fire in its wake and Jack was suddenly back in his dreams, curled with Aster under the dark forest of the Bogwood, exhausted but floating in a euphoric cloud of dying adrenaline and pleasure. He raised a hand to curl fingers through the soft ruff of fur around the Pooka’s neck.

“Aster,” the soft name tumbled between pale lips before Jack could bite them back.

Both rabbit and mage twitched like the word had burned them and the hands holding Jack dropped away in surprise. The sudden empty air around him seemed to pull all the breath from his lungs, the bright summer air pallid and cold compared to having Aster practically wrapped around him.

“How...?” Aster began, confusion creeping onto his face, along with no small amount of alarm.

“I-I don’t,” Jack stuttered, backing away and stumbling over the edge of the bush he had been hiding in. “It’s not, I.”

Jack gave up trying to explain and embraced the panic welling inside. He turned and ran, barely aware enough to grab his staff up from the ground where he had dropped it. A hand snagged in the back of his shirt, but Jack flung himself forward, feeling the fabric tear around short claws. He stumbled a little as he was suddenly free and allowed the moment to propel him forward.

In a moment of pure instinct, with the sound of large feet starting to move after him, Jack whirled his staff in a sweeping motion, pulling the light summer breeze around him until it swirled into a storm and he was swept off up over the trees and on toward the distant tundra.

 

 

He couldn’t feel his fingers, hadn’t been able to for the past few days. Sandy rubbed somewhat anxiously at the gloves he had bought in Onnaan to hide the fact that his hands were completely black, the shadow festering under his skin starting to creep its way up his arms. He knew that if he took off his jacket and shirt he would find splotches as high up as his elbows, growing thicker and more numerous the closer they came to his wrists, which still had a spot or two of his normal skin. He felt nauseous most days now, his magic burning inside him as it tried to combat the infection.

Sandy dreaded the moment the blackness reached his shoulders and could seep into his main system. He had seen it before. As soon as he shadow reached his chest, it would have access to his largest arteries, his spine and therefore the cord of nerves running through it. In his mind he had started to estimate how many days he had before he wouldn’t be able to walk, before he would lose his sense of touch. How long before the shadow would creep into his eyes and blind him. Before his organs would start to fail. Two weeks to reach his elbows. Another two or three until it hit his shoulders. And from there it would spread more quickly. Four weeks total before he would be unable to continue on with the others.

He hoped desperately that he would be able to last long enough to break the Bindings, give the others a chance to take Pitch down before he fell to the Shadow. Sandy clenched his hands, watching as the fingers moved in reaction to the signals from his brain, even as it felt like he had done nothing. It was eerie and he had to look away.

Instead he examined the cabin Nicholas had built himself in the Northern Forest. The furs lining the floor were perhaps a little ostentatious and tasteless in Sandy’s opinion. But it was hard to focus on them in comparison to the fantastical carvings that hung from the walls or rose up from bare spots on the floor. It seemed that for all Nick had abandoned his magic, he still had that flare for Creation. The man imagination had no limits and Sandy had always thought he should have gone on to train and test as a Sand Mage. But he knew why North had never done so. The man had no interest in the mysteries of the human mind and the whimsical world of the Dreaming. He was a man of hard physical reality, with a love and passion for finding the limits of this world...and then breaking them.

He stood from his seat by the large fireplace, empty for the summer heat, but necessary during the winters. He walked over to a particularly large carving done in a dark, nearly black granite. The rock was not native to the area and Sandy wondered how far Nick had gone in order to find such a large chunk of stone. The carving was polished to a smooth shine, delicate birds drifting on thin spindles that looked much too small to support themselves, let alone the birds perched delicately along them. As he walked around the piece, his own motion made it seem as if the birds swung in motion, dancing on air currents, feathers ruffling in the wind.

In a brief flash of memory, Sandy was back in the tower, in North’s rooms as they prepared for the birth of the man’s first child. Mages rarely married, but Nicholas had become enamored by one of the unGifted clerks down on the administration levels. She had been a beautiful woman and Sandy had wished her a long life, so far as the unGifted were prone to longevity, but she had perished in childbirth. He remembered spelling the ceiling with his Sand, weaving paths for the new Dreamer that would be gracing the cradle swaying slowly by the window. It would ensure easy Dreams and restful nights, both for the child and the parents. But the statue more reminded him of the gift North had made for his child. A Creating of birds and clouds and stars, drifting and twinkling and singing quietly over the cradle, so the child could watch them before falling into Sandy’s dreams.

“It is interesting piece,” North said in a voice that was oddly quiet for him, breaking Sandy out of his reverie. “Very frustrating to carve.”

Sandy nodded, sad golden eyes looking up into blue ones filled with an age-old tired acceptance. 

“It has been a long time,” Nicholas sighed, turning away from the carving and carrying a tray of food and drink over to the small table before the fireplace. “Too long. It is difficult to remember, but no longer painful. Centuries are more than enough to remember the good times.”

Sandy wished he could offer comforting words, but settled for a friendly hand on the shoulder, though he himself could not feel it. He wondered who Nicholas was trying to offer comforting words. Perhaps both of them. Perhaps no one.

The silence was broken as Toothiana fluttered in through the open front door, settling her feet onto the ground. Sandy nodded in greeting.

“Ah, Toothiana,” Nicholas boomed, regaining his usual boisterous timbre. “We are ready for lunch I think. Will Bunny be joining?”

“I’m not sure, he was still wandering the camp last I saw,” Toothiana replied, taking a seat with them and reaching for a plate of fresh fruit. She scooped up a few blueberries and began munching on them. “He has been in an odd mood lately. He cannot be blamed though, the news we brought him was rather shocking.”

“Ah, so you know then,” North nodded, picking up a leg of grouse meat and chewing on it.

Sandy and Toothiana shared a perplexed glance. Was Nicholas already aware of the third mage?

“You know then, about the third Binder?”

“Third Binder?” North asked, looking confused. “I was speaking of Pitch’s return.”

“Well, he is awake,” Toothiana agreed. “But the Bindings are still whole enough to keep him trapped within the Dreaming.”

“I think not,” North disagreed, shaking his head. “He may not be fully capable of entering the waking world, but he was here in the forest. Jack saw his shadow walk the woods and the nightmares he was able to call to his side.”

Both Fae and Sand Mage froze in their seats. Sandy felt a bubble of hope burst in his chest. Barely restraining himself from jumping out of his seat, Sandy waved his hands urgently, a golden question mark of Sand appearing over his head.

“You know Jack!” Toothiana almost shrieked in her own excitement. “This is wonderful, we were afraid we would never find the third mage!”

“Perhaps, we should all get our stories straight,” North said after a moment of somewhat tense and confused silence. 

Sandy nodded and fished around in his bag, peering inside more than necessary to compensate for the fact that he couldn’t actually feel what he was grabbing. After long seconds of silence, Sandy finds what he’s looking for. He hands Nick his old journal, bookmarked for the important passages, and the now slightly rumpled old painting. Nicholas smoothes out the painting first and stares at it.

 

 

It was late afternoon by the time Jack finally managed to undo the spell he had cast and the wind dropped him like a sack down through scrubby trees growing out of barren rocks. In the distance he can see taller, darker trees – the edge of the Great Northern Forest. In all other directions is a continuous landscape of dry grasses and brush clinging to crumbling rocks. He thinks there may be mountains off to the north, but if there are, they are covered in snow and are hard to tell apart from the hazy clouds hovering low on the horizon.

It was also cool, like he had managed to stumble onto a land where summer dared not tread. It was bleak in a way that reminded Jack of the empty ice fields of his dreams, where any life form that dared try its luck either died quickly or struggled every moment to survive. It wasn’t the same easy quiet sleep of winter he loved, where the snow blanketed the world in a soft silence while animals hid warm in their dens and birds flew south. Where the cold could be escaped inside four walls with a warm fire. Even this half-warm time of year up here seemed cruel and uncaring and Jack, for the first time in his life, hated the cold.

He tried to remember how he had called up the winds to carry him, but his actions all seemed a blur of instincts fired by panic and he couldn’t remember anything but a long sweep of his staff and magic burning in him, a cold fire eating his insides until he was light enough for the wind to whip away into oblivion. He looked up again at the distant forest, where he knew a warm bed was awaiting him, and waved his staff hopefully, reaching delicately for the magic he usually tried to ignore.

A rush of wind swirled around him and Jack spread his arms hopefully, but his body remained heavy and his feet firmly planted. A spark of chill hit his nose and he glanced down, eyes crossing. A snowflake sparkled in the edges of his vision and Jack looked up. Flakes swirled around him even as the sky remained clear and he huffed in frustration. His breath misted and frost curled along his staff and up his arms. Jack let the magic go with a sigh of defeat and started walking.

The sun was already past its noon zenith and Jack doubted he’d make much headway before dark. He hoped he’d at least find some taller trees before the sun moved close to the horizon. He did not expect it to become full dark, not so far north (it didn’t get much past twilight even back in the forest). But he knew from his years of sleeping in the open when he couldn’t afford a bed that dusk and dawn were when animals came out. And when prey was awake and moving, so were predators. Jack had heard stories about the size of the bears and had no desire to confirm those rumours.

 

 

The silence in the room was deafening as North finally set aside both journal and painting. Sandy stared at his gloved hands, wondering what there was to say.

“So,” Nicholas finally croaked out, his usual good humour replaced by old stress lines that Sandy had hoped he would never see again.

“We need to find that boy,” Toothiana said, her voice soft as if she was unsure her words were wanted. “Otherwise we cannot hope to reach Pitch.”

“I do not remember a Jack,” North said softly, something haunted in his eyes as they skittered over toward the painting with the small boy. “But I know the boy in the painting. I don’t remember him as a child. But he is here in the camp, and his name is Jack.”

For a long moment none of them moved, each staring blankly at the long forgotten food and drinks sitting there. Sandy’s mind warred between relief that they were closer than he had dared hope they could ever be and a deep sadness for his old friend. So long spent mourning a son that hadn’t actually died. It felt like abandonment to Sandy (he didn’t dare let his mind wonder what it was Nick might be feeling), even though the rational side kept pointing out that he had not had a choice. That the boy had volunteered for the task.

And they had let him.

Before the mood in the room could deteriorate anymore than it had, a figure appeared in the open door. Sandy looked up to see Aster, a troubled look creasing the Pooka’s face.

“We might have a problem,” the rabbit said, his ears drooping down and a hand rubbing the back of his neck.

 

 

The sun had circled down toward the horizon and the shadows had started to get longer along the ground, but the trees still remained too short to climb for safety. Jack sighed in resignation and decided that if the light remained good enough he would walk through until he made it to the trees. Even if he ended up needing to sleep an entire day to regain his energy afterward.

Anything was better than spending more time in this tundra waste, nothing but the crumble of rocks under his feet (and he dearly wished for his old boots, even the calluses he had built up weren’t enough) and the wind whistling through the grasses and dry shrubs to break the silence. Even the odd bird call only sounded lonely and desperate to move on.

A burble, water rushing on rocks, met his ears and Jack stumbled off toward it, finding a small stream bubbling up out of the rocks to pool slowly in one of the deep crevasses that cut the land where heavy freezing during the winter forced sharp changes in geography. He crawled slowly down the edges until he could crouch precariously at the edge of the pool, cupping water and sipping, wincing as the icy water cut down his throat and settled heavy in his empty stomach. Days of eating well in St. North’s camp had chipped away at years of going without more often than not and Jack felt the hunger pangs more than normal.

When his stomach bulged with water and his mind had been tricked into thinking he was full, the hunger flowing away for the time being, Jack looked down at his image. Blue eyes and white hair reflected back at him and Jack glared at himself. A ripple passed over the water and his reflection shifted. Jack sat back in surprise, but curiosity kept his eyes glued to the pond.

In the wake of the ripple, the image of a strange blonde man, round faced with kind amber eyes and freckles painting his cheeks and nose appeared. Jack felt the same painful familiarity with this strange face that he felt with St. North.

“Jack,” the image spoke and the voice tore at Jack’s heart, the voice so soft and understanding.

Jack clutched at his chest, breathing sharply, vision blurring at the edges until all he could see was the man watching him from the water.

“Jack,” the reflection repeated, this time more desperately, a hand painted in black splotches reaching out toward him in supplication.

His hand moved even before he was aware of it, hovering over the wavering image of the hand on the surface of the water. Jack hesitated for a moment, until his name passed for a third time from the mouth that was twisted in sorrow instead of smiling like Jack thought it should be. He touched the water and the image scattered, leaving nothing but darkness in the unseen depths of the pool. Jack frowned in disappointment and pulled his hand back.

The water came with it, a long string of inky wet sludge stuck to Jack’s palm and stretching back into the water unbroken. Jack wrinkled his nose and shook his hand, flicking his wrist in the hopes that the slime would fall away. Instead it curled further up his hand, rolling over his fingers and toward his wrist. A thrill of fear curled in his gut and he stood, trying to back away, flailing his arm and using his other hand to grab at it.

The black sludge swung around him, attaching itself to his other hand and one of his legs just above the knee. Almost instantly the long, goopy cord connecting him to the pool constricted, pulling him forward and off balance on the small ledge he had climbed down to. His arms windmilled and he dropped his staff, the wood sinking into the pond. Jack’s stomach dropped and he dove into the water.

As soon as his body disappeared beneath the surface, the water cleared, splashing as lapping at its confines, clear all the way down to its rocky and cold bottom. It was empty.


	12. Prisons Crumble

## Chapter Twelve

It was dark when Jack woke, and wet in an uncomfortably humid way. He groaned and rolled over, shallow water lapping gently around him. There were large willows and oaks looming over him, thin tendrils of moonlight leaking through the leaves, but instead of the usual silvery glow it only left patches of pale grey. Jack pushed himself to his feet and stumbled out of the puddle of murky water, silt swirling as he pulled his body up from the muddy bottom. He grimaced; even in the dark he could tell his clothing wouldn’t be salvageable.

He rubbed his head, feeling mud and leaves squelch around in his hair and Jack wondered how he had ended up in a swamp. Last he remembered...  
Jack’s eyes widened in panic, sweeping the area for his staff.

“No, no, no” he breathed, dropping to his hands and knees to search the ground, dread building in his stomach. His movements became more frantic as he encountered branch after branch that lacked the smoothness of long wear from his hands.

“Please,” Jack cried, flopping back down into the mud and water and starring up at the moon, wishing fervently that this was another of his horrible dreams and he would be waking any moment. He scrubbed a dirty hand across his eyes, trying to brush away the burning building there. His breaths felt tight, like there wasn’t enough air under the thick, leafy canopy above him.

“Wake up,” he demanded, squeezing his eyes shut and wrapping his arms around his head. “Please, just wake up Jack.”

“Talking to yourself already?” a soft voice whispered in his ear and Jack twitched around, trying to figure out which shadow Pitch was hiding in. “How delightful. I must admit I prefer you this way, all lost and alone. You were so much more annoying last time, so much brighter.”

“What do you want!?” Jack screamed out into the leaves, staggering back to his feet, trying to locate the source of the voice.

“I’ve told you Jack,” Pitch replied lightly, as if he were chastising a particularly recalcitrant child. “I want to see you unravel, Bound so tightly as you are.”

Jack shuddered, Pitch’s words echoing with an awful truth. All his confusing dreams pressed in on his mind and Jack sunk down against the thick trunk of an oak.

“Do you want to know what’s wrong with you, Jack?” Pitch asked, finally appearing out of the shadows, his form ethereal and almost transparent in the half-light from the quarter moon. Two smaller shadows stepped out of the dark on either side of him, both children. One was a girl with bright blonde hair, the other a dark-haired boy. Both children had eyes blacker than the night around them. “Do you want to know what they did to you?”

Pain throbbed in Jack’s temples, images rushing through his mind, tearing away at the light grasp Jack still had on reality.

_Jack giggled and clung to the knees of a tall man, beaming up into bright amber eyes._

_“Again, Uncle Koz!” Jack demanded, tugging at the mage’s robes. “Again!”_

_Uncle Koz laughed and scooped Jack up under his armpits, hoisting him high overhead and whirling them both around in tight circles. Jack squealed with delight, his sharp laughter bubbling loudly through the room._

“The Dreaming is thin here, Jackie,” Pitch taunted. “And your reality only exists in Dreams. They locked you away, just like me.”

Jack sobbed, hot tears burning down his cheeks. 

_“Uncle Sandy!” Jack screamed, watching as his Uncle Koz (‘not my uncle, that’s not him’) swooped down over the collapsed man, Shadow Sand coiling over his blood spattered robes. Sandy blasted the other mage with his Sand, sending Kozmotis sailing across the hall into a wall. The tall man slumped, down for the moment._

_Jack stumbled down the hall, desperately averting his eyes from the bodies littering the ground. He grabbed his Uncle by the arms, hauling the shorter man up and dragging him down the hall._

_“Come on,” Jack shouted as the Sand Mage stumbled dazedly, his pale gold eyes lost and unfocused. “We need to go!”_

Pitch was laughing, his form looming over Jack, trees visible through him. A hand was caressing his cheek, speckles of Shadow Sand tickling over his face. Jack moaned weakly, bile rising in his throat and tried to push Pitch away. His hand passed through and Pitch cackled his amusement.

_Jack stood in the Dreaming beside the Archmage and his Uncle, watching the writhing mass of nightmares descend on them._

_“Now or never!” Jack called to them, hoping he looked determined instead of showing the fear that curdled in his stomach._

_The Archmage nodded and gathered his glowing white sand around him, the whirlwind swirling out to encompass all three mages. Jack could hear the nightmares shrieking outside the barrier, Pitch’s angry cries echoing within them._

_“With the blessing of the Moon, we bind thee,” the Archmage intoned, power flaring in his Sand. “So none may see you, I give my Sight.”_

_Jack watched as the Man in the Moon’s eyes faded to milky white. Sandy stepped forward, casting his own golden Sand into the storm._

_“So none may speak to you, I give my Voice,” the Sand Mage had barely finished speaking when his power flared and his voice was cut off._

_Jack swallowed and stepped forward in turn. There was no changing his mind now. He had volunteered and knew the consequences. This was for the people of Manen, so they could live without fear after almost a decade spent in terror._

_“So none may remember where you lie, I give my Memory,” Jack choked out, his icy blue magic swirling out of him to join the whirling storm around them. For one second he was aware of the light expanding around them and Pitch’s screams changing from anger to fear. Then the light absorbed him and he knew nothing more._

Jack lunged forward from the tree, vomit pooling on the ground as his stomach finally gave out to the pain in his head and heaved out. He heard Pitch’s delighted laughter, the sound muffled as shock began to set in, the world fuzzy and dim at the edges of his vision.

“Dad,” Jack choked out on a sob just before the world finally let him go.

 

 

There was silence around the fireplace in North’s cabin that night. Nicholas hadn’t said much since Aster had informed them that Jack had fled the camp on the winds. Toothiana had taken to the air in an attempt to find him, but had returned after a couple hours. The trees were too thick in most areas to see down to the forest floor and if Jack had descended, he had done so without leaving any obvious trails of damage.

There had been nothing to do but wait and hope that the young mage would return on his own. But night was beginning to fall, dusk finally taking the land as the midnight hour passed and Jack had yet to return to the camp.

Sandy watched the somber mood settled heavily over the room. Nick sat facing the small fire that had been coaxed into life (the nights held the biting chill of the ice sheets), still clutching Sandy’s old journal like it might somehow summon Jack back to them. Toothiana was slumped in a chair, exhausted from her long flight and Aster was brooding, having pulled a chair over away from the rest of them. Sandy knew the Pooka blamed himself for Jack’s disappearance.

“He dreamt his memories,” St. North finally spoke into the long silence, the other three twitching at the sudden noise. “It is why he knew names, faces.”

Out of the corner of his eye Sandy could see Aster’s shoulders hunching guiltily. The Pooka had not given them any details about his and Jack’s encounter, just that the boy had spooked and run off. It was obvious that more had occurred, but given the possible past relationship Sandy felt there was some privacy allowed.

The silence settled back over the room. Sandy felt as if time and means to act were slipping through his fingers and he sighed, the gust of air crackling in his throat. His eyes widened and he slapped a hand to his throat. The others stirred from their own worries to watch him in confusion.

“Something is wrong?” North inquired, standing from his seat and walking over.

Sandy stared at them all, eyes wild as he gripped his throat in horror. He swallowed and tried to make a sound, hoping desperately it was only his imagination.

“Haaaaa...”the sound croaked painfully out of his throat, three centuries of disuse rendering his vocal chords stiff and raspy.

North stared at him, expression aghast.

“But,” the older mage started, a concerned frown on his face as the implications dawned. “If your voice is returning...that means...”

“The Binding is unravelling,” Toothiana breathed, fluttering off her seat in agitation. 

Before he could reply, a blinding pain erupted in Sandy’s head and the world went black.

 

 

Jack drifted in the easy peace that existed just between sleeping and waking. He could feel his body swaying lightly and a soft wind brushing his cheeks. He was uncomfortable, though, his body curled on hard, cold metal. Jack frowned and cracked an eye open, blinking in the dim light.

As the world came into focus and the bars surrounding him became apparent, memories of the night before flooded his mind. He made to push himself into a sitting position, but found that the cage he was in was too small for more than a hunched crouch. He glanced around, waiting for that soft taunting voice to filter out of the shadows, but the silence remained unbroken. One of the children that had flanked Pitch earlier watched him, standing still and silent, unblinking.

It was all too much, the fear and discomfort and confusion. Jack pressed his face to the bars of his cage as his stomach heaved, small trickles of bile all that his stomach had to give. It burned in his throat and his stomach cramped painfully. As soon as he could breathe again without his intestines contracting, Jack spit, trying to get rid of the acidic taste. All through his episode, the blonde girl stayed completely still, the pure black of her irises remaining trained unerringly on him.

He twisted around in the confines of his cage, turning his back on the little girl and stared at the cold stone walls. From the looks of things, he was in some sort of underground chamber, all light filtering down through cracks in the high ceiling. The air was cool, but still humid and the walls were smoothed, carved pillars spaced around to support the cavern. The scent of wet rock and old dirt filled his nostrils, accompanying the underlying scent of mud and decaying plants. If he had to guess, Jack would bet he was still somewhere in the Bogwood. Not surprising, Pitch had always preferred to stay where the layers of reality were thinnest and...

Jack flinched away from those thoughts, forcing back the memories swirling at the edges of his thoughts. He remembered...so much and so little. He remembered life at the tower, his father, the war, Aster, he Binding...but he had lost so many years between. Jack squeezed his eyes shut and forced his breaths to even out, swallowing the bubble of panic lodged in his throat.

‘It was my choice,’ Jack told himself, foggy memories of walking the Dreaming with Sandy and the Archmage, confronting Pitch. ‘I chose it, I chose it...’

His mantra and the little good it was doing him was abruptly cut off as a small hand gripped his. Jack opened his eyes to find the little girl watching him worriedly, her eyes no longer black, but a bright green with golden light swirling around in them.

“Scared.” The little girl whispered, a sad frown twisting her lips and she squeezed Jack’s hand lightly.

“Yeah,” Jack said, watching the child carefully for any sign of Pitch’s influence returning. “I’m Jack, what’s your name?”

“Sophie,” the girl whispered shyly, ducking her head a little but hand still clasped firmly around Jack’s. She looked at his cage and pouted, tears clinging to her eyes. “Jack stuck.”

“Yes, Jack’s stuck,” Jack replied, taking a more thorough look at his confinement, unable to find a break in the bars that would signify a door. “Do you know how to get me out?”

Sophie’s small face scrunched up in thought before she shook her head. Jack sighed in disappointment. His free hand clenched around thin air and Jack realized he still didn’t have his staff.

“Have you seen a stick with a curled end?” he asked instead. At this, Sophie’s eyes lit up and she nodded enthusiastically. Jack felt a small flare of hope flare. “Where?”

“Scary man,” Sophie whispered, pointing toward a door cut into the rock that Jack hadn’t noticed in his earlier panic.

Jack grimaced. At least his staff was somewhere in these caverns and not lying somewhere in the Bogwood or at the bottom of the tundra pool. Jack felt the small hand around his own loosen and slip away. He glanced up at Sophie and found black eyes staring at him once more.

Groaning, Jack turned away from the unnerving gaze and tried to find a way to free himself.

 

 

Sandy woke to the annoying feeling of someone tapping on his cheek. He peeled his eyes open to find Toothiana hovering over him, worry creasing her brow.

“Oh, thank the Moon,” Toothiana breathed, a smile breaking out on her delicate features. “All three of you just collapsed.”

Sandy frowned and looked around the room to find North and Bunnymund slumped on the ground of the main room of North’s cabin. His throat was dry and sore and Sandy coughed, flinching at the rough sound that emerged. The noise was foreign after three hundred years of silence. He rubbed his head, a dull throbbing left from the pain that had flared before he had passed out.

“Re-member-ing,” he croaked out, each syllable hoarse and forced, but at the same time incredibly satisfying. And it was true. Beyond the headache, Sandy could remember more of the war than even his journal had revealed. Including letting his nephew volunteer as the mage who would sacrifice memory. Sandy took a moment to be thankful for the fact that neither Nicholas nor Aster were awake yet. He was sorely tempted to take the cowards route and evacuate the cabin.

But nor that the Binding was obviously broken, Pitch would be fully capable of returning to cast his Shadows upon the world. Sandy had no illusions that he would be able to take the man on his own. If having the aide of the Thief Lord and the last Pooka meant facing some rather unfortunate music, then Sandy would take what was coming to him.

“Then the Binding?” Toothiana asked, pulling Sandy from his internal musings.

Sandy nodded, closing his eyes as the implications pressed in on him. Jack was missing, probably in Pitch’s hands if the sudden failing of the Binding was anything to go on. Pitch was who knew where.

In the corner, Aster groaned and rolled over, a paw pressed to the bridge of his nose. Sandy knew exactly what the rabbit felt, his own head still throbbing faintly. Green eyes opened and pupils focused. Sandy hurriedly averted his gaze, hoping to avoid any accusing glares. 

“You _let_ him,” Aster’s voice was raspy with pain. “How could you let him?”

Sandy kept his gaze cast away, shrugging helplessly. He could see Toothiana hovering out of the corner of his eye, expression hesitant and unsure. Sandy realized with a surge of relief that she wouldn’t have any idea of what he had allowed to happen.

Before Aster could really get going (and Sandy suddenly recalled exactly how much of a temper the rabbit had), North started to wake, the large man slowly pushing himself up, hand gripping a chair tightly for support.

Unlike Aster, North remained silent and Sandy couldn’t help but turn his gaze to his old friend. There was a deep sadness there warring with hope.

“Alive,” Sandy rasped.

“Is he,” Nicholas finally muttered, his eyes dark. “Is what we left him with a life?”

“Not...dead,” Sandy amended, flinching at the blank tone to Nick’s voice.

“For how long!” Aster erupted, stalking over. “The Binding is gone. Jack is missing!”

“Then we find him,” Toothiana inserted herself into the conversation. “We do him no favours by standing around and blaming each other for what has passed.”

The silence that followed Toothiana’s harsh statement was thick. Aster still looked furious, but said nothing. North let out a long breath, his shoulders slumping.

“And where do you propose we start?” he asked, his voice full of repressed pain.

“Pitch was physically in the Dreaming, he would need somewhere thin in order to cross,” Toothiana said, her tone sure. “He’s been out of touch with this world for centuries. He’ll find familiar ground and build from there.

“Bogwood,” Sandy said quietly, staring at the small flames that still licked slowly in the fireplace.

He heard Aster let out a long breath, then the sound of paws padding toward the door. He twisted in his seat, watching as Aster paused in the doorway to send a glare back at the three of them.

“Well?” the rabbit demanded. “Why are we still here?”

“It’s a two week trip,” Toothiana tried to reason. “We need to put together provisions.”

“Five days by horse, if we push,” North said, striding purposefully toward the Pooka waiting at the door.

Sandy slid out of his seat and followed them. He heard Toothiana sigh behind them. In his head he knew the Faerie was right. They should take the time to prepare themselves. In his heart he saw a bright-eyed little boy.

There was no hesitation as he walked after North and Bunnymund.


	13. Dark and Cold

## Chapter Thirteen

Pain shot up his leg as the muscle cramped and Jack groaned, trying to massage it out with his hands. Not for the first time, Jack wished he could stretch out. He would gladly crawl right into another cage if only if were slightly larger. He couldn’t even begin to count all the places that were kinked or cramping in this tight confinement. His legs were curled into his chest, arms hunched around them and his neck curled forward and Jack had never before been so uncomfortable. Not in the damp and cold sleeping arrangements that scouts had endured during the Darkening, not in the trees and bushes he had crawled into during his last (still foggy and confusing) three hundred years, and definitely not in the last few cozy weeks he had spent in the Thief King’s encampment.

Jack’s thoughts skittered away from the last couple months of his life. The dreams that had seemed so confusing merged messily with his former life and the resultant head ache just made him feel sick and dizzy. He glared balefully at the moonlight seeping through the cracks in the high ceiling. Anger and resentment bubbled under his skin for the bright deity that granted the mages their magic. All the whispering and the dreams and the fragments of memory that had tormented him. Jack curled away from the little silver beams shimmering in the dank cavern, closing his eyes.

He felt more than heard the new presence sweep into the room. A shiver curling down his spine as Shadow flowed over and around his cage.

“Better, Jackie?” Pitch asked, the hint of a laugh in his voice. “Safe in the dark with no Moon to drag your destiny.”

“What do you want?” Jack asked morosely, opening his eyes to peer out at the dark figure sweeping toward him through the gloom and Shadow Sand.

“Nothing but freedom, little Jack,” Pitch breathed, coming to a stop in front of Jack’s small cage, yellow and black eyes glowing eerily in the darkness. “Don’t you wish for it too? To be free of the Moon and its commandments, free of your messy magic and painful memories?”

“I chose this,” Jack snapped, glaring at the creature that bore his uncle’s form. “I made a choice, had the _freedom_ to do so.”

Pitch laughed, face pressing in close to the bars. Jack could feel the uncomfortable heat from his breath and the slippery tendrils of Shadow curling over his limbs.  
“Oh but did you?” Pitch asked, a strange fervor heating his eyes. “What choice do any of us have, when the will of the Moon turns the world in its cycles? What choice did I have when the Shadow came to me? When I was Bound to sleep in the Dreaming and later dragged to wakening through those Bonds?”

Jack hunched his shoulders up, trying to ignore the words pouring into his ears. It was all poison, spewing from a familiar face in the hopes he would drink it in. Still, the doubt sprouted inside. Why had he felt like he could not tell those closest to him? Why had he spoken the words at the end, when he had wished for nothing more than to turn away and run back to the warm embraces of his loved ones?

“You see, Jack?” Pitch was hissing at him now, eyes wild in his pale grey face, the shadows swirling and writhing within them. “We are nothing but pawns in the Moon’s games. I in the Shadows to drive people fearfully back into its embrace. You in the light to guard and sacrifice for the faithful.”

“No,” Jack whispered, eyes searching for anything to focus on other than Pitch and his roiling darkness. Something to pull him back to the light, or at least a shade of grey.

“Yes,” Pitch rasped. “There is no freedom where you walk, Jack. And no freedom for me if I walk alone. We could walk together Jack, Shadows and Winter to drive the world into a new age, where the Moon cannot toy with us.”

Jack watched as Pitch withdrew his precious staff from somewhere in his robes. He sucked in a breath at the sight, wishing he could just reach out through the bars and grasp its comforting smooth wood. He could feel the frost and chill winds waiting to rush up through him, waiting and dancing at his finger tips.

“Join me, Jack,” Pitch demanded, his voice hard and loud in the echoing chamber. “You can reclaim your life, have power you never before dreamed. No more accidental blizzards, no more dreams or memories. Just the cold and dark of our perfect world.”

Jack breaths came in shaky gasps. It would be so easy to say yes, to let Pitch whisk him away into the shadows of the night. He would have his staff back. No more stealing in order to survive, no more nights spent sleeping in trees or haystacks. No more cramped little cage.

“Just say yes, Jack,” Pitch murmured urgently, waving his staff just out of reach through the bars.

Jack pulled his eyes away, searching desperately around the room one last time for any reason to deny the man that stood before him. A flash of gold near the exit caught his eyes and he focused in on the small figure huddled there. 

Sophie.

Jack saw tears shimmering in the golden light that swirled in green eyes, the fear as she watched Jack. Her mouth opened and formed two silent words. _Bad Man_. Jack felt something swell in his chest, a tightness in his lungs. Sophie and the other children, so many wandering blank-faced through these halls. Was this Pitch’s perfect world? Nothing but him and Jack surrounded by the shells of people and their Winter and Shadows?

“No,” Jack breathed to himself, closing his eyes. Images of his father, of Aster and Sandy wandering dead-faced around him danced behind his eyes.

“What?” Pitch hissed, his voice low and deadly.

“No,” Jack said again, his voice stronger and he opened his eyes to glare at the man he had once called Uncle. “I _will not_ join you.”

A terrible grimace stole over Pitch’s lips, stretching them over pointed teeth.

“Very well,” Pitch snarled, rage painting his tone. “Then I suppose you’ll have no need of this.”

And Jack screamed as Pitch snapped his staff in two, the ragged crack lost in his cries. Pitch tossed the two halves of Jack’s staff of into the shadowed recesses of the chamber, a sardonic grin on his face.

“Sorry Jackie,” Pitch crooned. “Was that important? I thought you said you didn’t want our perfect world? Winter has no place in a world of light and warmth and that’s where you want to live, isn’t it?”

Jack remained silent, eyes locked vacantly on the direction his broken staff had been thrown.

“Hmm, I suppose we can be done with talking for tonight,” Pitch murmured, his tone cheerful. “I can see you need some time to come to terms with your _choices_.”

Pitch turned and swept out of the room, ignoring the small blonde child crouched by the door. As he left and drew his shadows with him, moonlight once more filtered into the room. A single stray beam landed on the staff and the jagged ends where it used to be whole.

 

 

Aster’s ears twitched as more odd sounds filled the woods around them. The horses shied, pulling at the ropes tethering them to the trees just off the main south road to Manengrad. They had made it within sight of the city itself, but would not have managed the gates before sundown. Instead they had chosen to camp at a well used site on top of the small mountain that bordered the city resting snug in the valley below, its lamps shimmering on the edge of the great southern plain that stretched off until it hit the sea and the borders of Manen itself.

He watched the city, trying to ignore the restless night time noises and the antsy horses dancing along the half-shadows at the edge of their camp. He couldn’t understand how the others had managed to find rest these past three nights since they had left the northern forest. Every time he closed his eyes he saw confused blue eyes staring back at him, heard his name breathed quietly by pale lips.

And if he let himself drift too far he remembered pushing Jack away, too deep in his own pain and grief to see the desperate sadness and fear reflected in Jack’s eyes. Bunnymund knew it was his own mind and guilt shoving these images at him. In truth, when he was awake and dreams weren’t invading and twisting his memories, he didn’t know what had been in Jack’s eyes that night so many centuries ago. He hadn’t been able to spare a glance at his human lover. Not when his entire race had spent themselves to destroy Pitch’s legions of Shadow mages and nightmares. Had died by human hands under human command.

He realized later why the command to storm Pitch’s stronghold and destroy it had been given. The war had ended that night, Pitch weakened without his minions and easily Bound in the Dreaming with the help of the Fae. But Aster had left that battle scarred in his soul and alone. And so had Jack and North, and maybe even Sandy. He hadn’t kept up with his fellow warriors after the war ended. None of them had.

It seemed somewhat sadistic that the end of the war, which should have been a relief, filled with friends and loved ones and celebration had instead left them more barren than anything else. Jack had been the keystone, holding Aster and North and Sandy together and without him the small family they had built crumbled around them.

The noise in the woods – a soft crunch of feet over twigs and old leaves – sounded again and one of the horses tugged at its tether. Aster finally couldn’t take it anymore. This late nothing should be stirring in the woods. Dusk had long passed and dawn was still hours away. Aster prodded Sandy awake.

“Somethin’s not right,” Aster murmured lowly, green eyes focused on the dark trees beyond their camp. “Ya may want to wake the others. I’m going to look around.”   
Sandy looked vaguely alarmed, but nodded and moved to start waking North and Toothiana. Aster stood and walked warily out of the fire light, pausing only long enough for his eyes to adjust to the change in light. His ears swiveled, catching every rustle of leaves in the breeze and crackle of twigs underfoot.

A shadow moved, slipping between bushes, dancing along the edge of the camp but never breaching the low light cast by the fire. The figure was small, upright and bipedal. Aster squinted, trying to get a better look, creeping along whenever the figure moved out of sight in the underbrush. For a brief, somewhat hysterical moment Aster’s mind wildly contemplated the possibility that Pitch had started to employ dwarves. But the deep-earth dwelling creatures had not been seen in this corner of the earth for more than a thousand years.

Aster suppressed the urge to snort at himself and moved to position himself closer to the little spy. In that instant the logs in their fire shifted, sending up a flare of flame and sparks, shooting light farther into the woods and illuminating the small figure for a fraction of a second before they ducked back into the bushes.

This time not bothering to contain his noise of derision, Aster stood and slipped his boomerangs back into their sheathes on his bandolier. It was some kid, likely snuck out from one of the local farms. Aster stalked forward, intending to either tell the kid off or watch as he scampered back to wherever he came from.

“Just some farmer’s brat,” he called back to the camp, watching as the small boy, maybe nine or ten years old turned to watch him approach. He kid was a brave little bugger, Aster had to give him that, not even flinching at being caught spying by a six foot Pooka. The closer he came to the boy, with the child still standing unmoved by his approach, the more Aster hesitated, his fur standing on end and instinct screaming that something wasn’t right with the situation.

A commotion back in the camp distracted him momentarily. He turned slightly at the sound of North swearing, the hiss of metal indicating that the man had drawn his swords. In his split second of inattention, a small hand wrapped around his wrist. Aster looked down to snap at the kid, tell him to get on home, but the words died in his mouth.

Black eyes peered up at him blankly, the small hand on him feeding black sand up his arm. Aster yelled and yanked his hand, trying to tear it out of the kid’s grasp and reach for his weapons at the same time. Instead of pulling free, the child lifted from the ground as if he weighed nothing, darkness erupting like wings at his back and other arm reaching out as he came level with Aster’s face.

His last sight was the horses breaking their tethers and sprinting off toward the distant city before the black cloud sprouting from the boy enveloped him and he was drowning in Shadow.

 

 

Jack woke to the feeling of something prodding him in his side, one of the few places on his body that didn’t constantly ache from his confinement. He groaned and tried to shift away, not wanting to wake and face the world. The prodding paused for a moment, then continued with slightly more pressure and determination.

“Jack,” a soft voice said, sounding mildly irritated.

He peeled open one heavy, aching eyelid and peered down at the blonde hair and green-gold eyes hovering next to his cage.

“Awake,” Sophie chirped happily, beaming up at him and brandishing the ruins of his staff at him. Jack closed his eyes and rubbed at the burning he could feel building at the corners. He wouldn’t cry, not with Pitch lurking who knew where for him to break.

Sophie continued to smile up at him and hold out the broken staff, waiting patiently for Jack to take them from her. As the smile started to look somewhat uncertain, Jack sighed and pushed away his own useless anger and self-pity.

“Thanks, Sophie,” he said, his voice gritty from stress and restless sleep, pulling out what he hoped was a passable smile. He reached through the bars and took hold of the two halves of his staff, trying to ignore the way they felt dull and lifeless under his hands for the first time since he had held it.

“Jack’s stick,” Sophie said, nodding happily as he cradled the two pieces to his chest, awkwardly manoeuvring them around his legs. “Fix.”

Jack stared at her, a wry smile catching his lips at the tone of command in her voice. She was going to be fierce when she grew into her own.

“It’s not that simple, Soph,” Jack explained quietly, hoping Pitch was off doing some dastardly who-knew-what and not eavesdropping on them. “Some things can’t be fixed.”

Sophie glared at him, her lower lip drawing down and her nose wrinkling up.

“Fix!” she insisted, prodding Jack forcefully in his side.

“I can’t, Sophie,” Jack tried to explain, wishing he didn’t sound like he was whining at a child barely a fraction of his age. “Magic doesn’t work properly without a channel.”

“Try,” Sophie said, challenge in her voice and hands perched on her hips. Jack couldn’t help but chuckle as he looked at her, so small but so strong.

Looking back at his staff, Jack considered if there was any merit in throwing raw magic at his staff and hoping for the best. If he was lucky, it would result in a raging blizzard and perhaps a repaired staff. If he wasn’t, his magic would flare completely out of control and burn him out permanently, maybe even kill him. Whatever the result, he didn’t want Sophie in the room where she might get hurt.

“Ok,” Jack finally replied, watching as Sophie’s determined frown blossomed into a bright smile and she clapped happily, bouncing in place. “But I need you to leave.”

Sophie nodded and hurriedly scurried from the cavern, disappearing down one of the passages visible through the door. Jack watched until she was out of sight then turned determinedly to his staff. He held the two ends outside the cage in front of him so he could fit them together. Taking a deep breath and trying to ignore the tiny bubble of hope blooming in his heart, Jack closed his eyes and dredged up as much magic as he dared. He pushed it out, trying to envision it filling his staff and sealing it back into one whole.

Jack knew, in theory, that magic could be used without a channel. Sand mages, and some of the more powerful mages of the upper Sanctums were trained to do so. But he had never shown enough control or prowess to ever be considered for higher training. He only hoped this would work.

As the last of the magic trickled out of him, Jack peeled his eyes open and stared at his staff. The garish crack was still present, the wood still split. Jack felt his hope flicker and die, his arms slumping to hang outside his cage, staff ends still clutched between pale fingers. He stared vacantly at the dim chamber, watching as snowflakes swirled down around him.

A mirthless laugh passed through his lips with light huffs of air. At least Pitch would be pleased. The summer heat had been chased off by his magic and the room stood cold and dark, the soft creak of his cage as it swung muffled by the falling snow.


	14. Ever Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for this chapter in advance! Gore, torture, questionable mental states.

## Chapter Fourteen

It was with both halves of his staff clutched protectively to his chest that Jack awoke to the feeling of being watched. Pitch hadn’t visited him in days and Jack doubted the man would wait for him to wake before beginning his usual mental torment.

Peeking open an eye, Jack found three of Pitch’s possessed children watching him, two boys and a girl, blank faces pressed close to his cage. Sophie was nowhere to be seen and Jack felt a small amount of alarm. The little girl hadn’t left his room for more than a few moments since Pitch had broken his staff.

As Jack came full awake and sat up as best he could in his prison, the three children cocked their heads to the side and peeled their lips back into contorted grimaces, as if their faces had forgotten how to smile. The result was somewhat disturbing and Jack let his eyes wander down to their hands. Bile rose in the back of his throat as he saw the dark blood spattered over their fingers, dried and flaking. As one, all the bloodied hands came up, and pressed in through the bars of his cage, fingers uncurling to let small pebbles, also bloody, clatter across the bottom of the cage.

For a long confused moment, Jack stared at the open hands and the odd, oblong little rocks, each one tapered to a thin point at one end. Glancing from the pebbles to the children’s hands, Jack wondered if the points of the small rocks had cut their hands while they’d been holding them. But the blood was hours old and mostly flaking away. Jack couldn’t see any wounds on the tiny hands.

Then, in a moment of clarity, Jack realized exactly what had been dumped in the bottom of his cage. His feet kicked out violently as he tried to move away even though there was nowhere to go. They caught on his toes and some clattered through the bars and onto the stone floor. Jack pressed his face to the bars and retched violently, nothing but black bile and saliva dripping past his lips. The episode passed, but Jack kept his face pressed to the cold metal, dry sobs choking in his chest and eyes screwed shut tight.

The claws – that’s what they were, and Jack should have realized, the blood on the ends and little bits of fur and flesh still clinging – rattled as his cage swung. Jack clutched his staff tighter as small feet padded away from his cage. For the first time in his life, Jack felt cold creep under his skin and he shivered, limbs shaking uncontrollably.

 

 

Aster huddled in the darkest, furthest corner of his cell, ears pressed down so he couldn’t hear if that monster came back to taunt him. So he couldn’t hear his companions begging him to speak to them, let them know he was alright. 

Because he wasn’t. He was so far from alright.

His hands curled tightly into his chest. Fingers still raw and slowly oozing blood from the tips.

_“A present for our little Jackie,” Pitch crooned, fingers carding through fur as ropes of shadow kept the thrashing Pooka bound tightly to the wall. “He’s missed you so.”_

_Pain shot up his left arm from his fingers. Burning, ripping, tearing as part of his body was torn away from him. His fingers were wet and hot and he could feel his fur matting. Someone was screaming and his throat hurt, but not enough to drown out his fingers, and Pitch was laughing, hands painted bright red over pale grey and black._

“Aster!” a harsh whisper came from somewhere outside his cell. North’s voice rough, echoing even as he tried to be quiet for once in his life. Aster ignored him. His voice wasn’t important.

“Aster?” this voice was croaking, not its normal soft hum from the long centuries left silent. Sandy sounded worried, even as his throat wheezed from lack of use. Aster didn’t want that voice either.

Toothiana remained blessedly silent, her cell directly across from him and her purple jewel eyes watched his huddled form. There was only one voice he wanted to hear right now.

Jack was somewhere in these Moonless caverns. Had been here for days. With Pitch.

Aster raised a bloodied hand to his mouth and chewed at the stiff fur. The other hand came up, fingers flexing and dragging over each other. No claws carded and groomed anymore. A hiccupped breath escaped his mouth and the voices were back again, calling his name. And Aster continued to ignore. 

 

 

It was a new sensation. One Sandy didn’t want to let his mind explore too deeply. The most he allowed himself to do was wonder how Pitch had managed it, if only so that he might find a way to undo it. 

He had given up on Aster. The Pooka would not be stirred from the recesses of his prison. Sandy couldn’t blame him for that. He wasn’t sure what Pitch had done, but he had heard the screams, the laughter.

Hands stripped of the leather gloves that had hidden the shadow infection (black now solid to his elbows and spotting and streaking as his as his shoulders, so close to the heart) reached up to trace his newest addition. A black collar, the shadow sand curling over his skin, oozing across.

When he had first found it, Sandy had worried that Pitch had taken his voice from him again. A pointless fear, he had lived in silence for centuries. The true purpose was worse. There was an emptiness inside. Sandy couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been able to hear the comforting mutters of the moon, feel the Dreaming sliding across his skin like a comfort blanket both dangerous and familiar.

The collar bound him more surely than the bars across the mouth of his cell, blocking his magic. Across from him the bulk of North, all red and black leather and white hair, sat in much the same predicament; his magic bound and his swords nowhere to be found.

A soft shuffle near the entrance to their cell block drew his attention and his eyes widened as he spotted a familiar blonde head and bright green eyes.

“Sophie,” he breathed and the girl waved lightly, a small but true smile tugging at her lips.

Golden light whirled around the edges of her irises, the green already starting to tint to amber permanently. Sandy felt a surge of hope and beckoned the child closer, all other noise in the room (even the soft, barely there shuddering breaths from the Pooka) ceased as she shuffled shyly across the floor to stand in front of him.  
He reached a hand out, gently tracing a black finger under one of her eyes. She giggled at the sensation, smile even wider and hand coming up to clasp Sandy’s tightly.

“Magic,” he whispered and smiled at the child.

 

 

Jack’s eyes were sore and his throat burned. He sat slumped, head pressed to his knees and eyes glued to his feet. There were flakes of blood stuck to his toes and two of the claws invaded his sight at the edges.

The nausea had passed and had been replaced by a burning, roiling anger. Leaning both halves of his staff in the crook of one elbow, Jack raised his head and began picking up the claws and tucking them into the ragged pockets of his pants.

Each breath shook as it passed through his lips and teas burned at the corners of his eyes, but Jack diligently picked up the claws that hadn’t fallen in his earlier fit. Six in total. Rocking forward, Jack spotted four more scattered on the floor.

It felt wrong to leave them there when the others were safely tucked away and in a moment of desperation, Jack took the hooked half of his staff in hand and reached out with it. It was too short, tip skimming the air but unable to brush the ground.

Jack howled in rage and threw himself forward, chest and legs and face pressed into the bars, knees bent up to their fullest extent, pain searing in his hips and knees as bones, muscles, and tendons were pressed past the point of comfort, skin creasing and stretching. Both hands reached out now, both halves of his staff flailing through the air, each still too short to even bump the thin claws.

The temperature in the room plummeted, snow swirling in vortexes across the floor. Ice crept up the cage, thick and glistening. The metal creaked and screamed under the sudden onslaught of cold.

It wasn’t enough and another screech of blind anger tore out of Jack’s raw throat. He jammed his staff back together, power surging through his veins. A flash of ice-white light blazed through the room, spotting his vision. 

There was the sound of shattering ice and metal and Jack’s body plummeted, his body tipped out as the bottom of the cage fell away and bounced noisily across the snow covered ground. He hit the snow and stone with a soft crunch and a huffed breath.

Dropping the newly remade staff, Jack’s hands dug into the snow with a rabid fervor, digging for bloody claws.

Only four left. He needed them.


	15. The Moon Turns Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First off I just want to apologize for the long wait between updates. I just finished moving house. I'm also packing for a 3 month trip to Europe and I doubt I'll manage to finish this before I leave, so there is an even longer wait ahead (sorry in advance). Warnings ahead for graphic scenes, child abuse, and lots of angsty stuff.

## Chapter Fifteen

Jack was curled in a dark corner at the end of a collapsed hallway, remade staff clutched tightly to his chest and bloody claws clacking gently in his jacket pockets every time he moved when Sophie crawled up to him, her eyes clear and swirling with gold. Jack smiled weakly at her, his mind and body still tired and fuzzy.

“Hey, Sophie,” his voice was a cracked whisper as he spoke.

“Fixed,” Sophie chirped with a bright smile, pointing at his staff and Jack’s own weak smile strengthened.

“Yeah,” he agreed, hands running over the frosted length of it. It was a comforting gesture, even with his body too tired to even conjure up a single snowflake.  
Jack shifted and pushed himself into a more upright position, his muscles still burning and protesting from the previous uncontrolled rush of magic. His whole body ached even worse than he had the morning after he drank himself into a stupor with Phil and the other mercenaries.

Sophie shuffled closer, until she was practically standing in Jack’s lap and offered him a tightly clasped fist. Jack fought down a surge of bile as images of tiny bloody fists dropping claws into his cage flashed vividly through his mind. Swallowing and forcing one of his hands to unclench from his staff, Jack reached out to receive whatever Sophie had brought him. The tiny fingers unfurled and a slightly bent, glossy green feather twirled down into his palm. Jack stared at it in confusion, wondering what the point of the feather was. Perhaps Sophie was trying to cheer him up in her own childish way... or maybe she was trying to tell him that she knew the way out.

At this thought, Jack leaned forward, further crowding them together.

“Where did you get this?” Jack asked, his voice still low and cracking.

“Bird lady,” Sophie replied and Jack groaned. That was less than helpful.

“Where is the bird lady?” Jack asked instead, hoping this would give him clearer answers.

“Trapped,” Sophie informed him, her smile drooping a little.

Jack let his head fall back in frustration. This was getting him nowhere. Jack let his hand drop, fingers curling inwards. There was a sharp chirp of protest and them a sharp pain in his palm. Jack yelped and jerked his hand back up to his chest, flicking it in an attempt to dislodge whatever had pricked him.

A small form buzzed up into the air, Sophie squealing in delight and waving her arms around in an attempt to catch the creature. Jack peered at the darting shape. A hummingbird? A glance down at himself and the floor assured him that the feather was gone.

“Sophie,” Jack began slowly, an idea of who the bird lady might actually be niggling at the back of his mind. “Can you take me to the bird lady?”

Sophie paused in her chase and cocked her head, seeming to consider his request. As soon as it was no longer being chased, the bird flew up into Jack’s face. Jack blinked in surprise as tiny purple eyes regarded him in irritation and small hands gestured impatiently for him to get up.

“Fairy,” Sophie exclaimed happily, cooing and wiggling her fingers at the miniscule creature.

“Fae,” Jack corrected breathlessly, his mind spinning as pieces of the puzzle started to come together. 

They were in the Bogwood. That much was obvious from the dank humidity in the air, even underground as they were. Even though he couldn’t sense the Dreaming like a Sandmage, he knew how thin the veil between it and reality was in this area. 

What had Aster been doing in that northern encampment? He and North (‘father,’ Jack’s mind supplied) had never gotten on, at least not when Jack had last seen them in the same room. And the Pooka hated the cold, avoided the colder areas of the world with the same kind of single-minded determination with which he did everything in life. And if, judging by the claws in his pockets (Jack’s mind carefully skittered away from the thought of _how_ those claws came to be there), Pitch had Aster...did that mean he had North too?

Jack could only assume, from the tiny Fae hovering in his face, that the Faerie queen was a guest of Pitch’s brutal hospitality as well. If so...  
“I can’t help you,” Jack croaked at the tiny Fae, grimacing as his muscles throbbed at even the thought of moving. 

The Fae chirped at him like a particularly recalcitrant child, its tone chiding. Jack glared at the bossy little thing and waved his hand at it. It buzzed away from him chittering angrily.

“Fairy, fairy, Jack!” Sophie laughed in delight and all but crawled into Jack’s lap in order to try and reach the buzzing nuisance.

Groaning in pain as the child put more weight onto his aching body, Jack tugged Sophie down onto his lap, shifting until she held still and he was somewhat more comfortable.

“I’m no good like this,” Jack whispered tiredly, too bone-weary to stay annoyed at either of his companions. “If you’re so worried, then keep watch and let me sleep.”

This last bit was directed at the Fae and though she rolled her little eyes at him, she settled down onto some of the crumbled stones from the collapsed ceiling and stared off down the hall. 

“Jack sleep?” Sophie questioned, squirming around until she could wrap her arms around Jack’s neck and tuck her head under his chin.

Jack winced as she moved, but let the child settle.

“Yes, Jack needs to sleep,” his words ended on a yawn as he let himself finally fall away from the waking world. “Then we can fight the bad man.”

 

 

It was dark in the Archmage’s chambers, the crescent moon hidden behind thick clouds as it had been for the last few days. Eyes that had been blind for centuries peered tiredly out a large window on landscapes he had only seen in Dreams. The Man in the Moon was tired, had watched the world turn for too long.

A shadow further into the bedchamber shifted, lengthening and breaking away from the wall. Yellow eyes peered down at the frail figure seated in the dim light.

“So you’ve come,” the Archmage greeted the imposing figure. “I have waited long years for this cycle to complete.”

“And here we are,” Pitch acknowledged, his deep voice light and calm, almost as it had been when he was still Kozmotis, Mage Commander of the Nine Sanctums. “Your delayed defeat, _my delayed victory_. At last.”

“You have won nothing yet,” the Archmage sighed, shaking his head. “And lost more than you care to remember.”

Pitch snarled wordlessly, shadows roiling out of his form and wrapping around the Archmage. The Man in the Moon wheezed as the shadows stole into his mouth, his eyes, the world fading away once more to the darkness of the past three centuries. Yet this time it was more absolute. He was so tired...

“I have won more, achieved more than you could ever hope to imagine,” Pitch snarled, feeling the last life force of a once mighty mage seep away at his feet.

He stared dispassionately at the bloated, shadow-rotted corpse that fell to his feet as his shadows retreated. He inhaled in the musty air of the dark room and finally allowed a scowl to overtake his face, somehow irked at the easy defeat of one who had opposed him so forcefully. Had he been so weak? Or had time taken it’s slow, relentless toll?

He sneered in irritation and disappeared in a whirl of his long robes. Outside the tower the clouds covering the night sky thickened.

 

 

_Jack opened his eyes to a light grey sky, little snowflake-hummingbirds drifting through the air. He sat up, brushing a dusting of frost off his sleeves, frozen grass crunching and snapping beneath him. Hills of frost riddled greenery rolled around him, disappearing over the curve of the horizon. The only anomaly on an otherwise monotonous landscape was a lump of grey atop one of the adjacent hilltops._

_A rock, Jack supposed, covered in fur. In a distant way, he was aware that this was a dream. As such, a furry rock was perfectly in keeping with the surroundings. It would be much more comfortable than his current spot in the grass, Jack decided, and pushed himself to his feet._

_The snow-hummingbirds whirled and flitted out of his way as he crunched his way down his hill and up the next. As he approached the oblong grey mound of fur, Jack realized it was shivering. Well he certainly wasn’t cold. Could furred rocks get cold? Jack shrugged it off and pressed a hand down into the fur in order to lever himself up onto the soft, warm lump. It recoiled and twisted away from his touch and Jack took a step back, blinking in alarm, tightening his hands only to realize that he had no staff in this dream._

_“Jack,” a softly accented voice whispered and Jack looked on in shock as the rock morphed into a vaguely Aster-like shape, green eyes staring up helplessly and full of pain. His heart constricted painfully and he reached for the lump of fur that was slowly growing ears and limbs. Paws reached up toward him._

_“Help, Jack,” the Pooka pleaded, eyes scrunching up as the tips of his furred hands exploded and blood flew everywhere._

_Jack shrieked in alarm, staggering away as blood coated his skin and clothes. Little claws, covered in blood and with torn shreds of fur and flesh dangling from their ends flew at his face. A sharp prick on his left cheek as one made contact...another...and another._

Jack jerked awake in damp darkness, his back against cold stone and a solid warmth tucked to his front. His hand flew to his abused cheek and swatted away the tiny Fae before she could jab her sharp little beak into his skin again. He glared at her, but his anger waned as she flew worriedly around his head, chirping.

“Just a bad dream,” Jack reassured the little being, holding the sleeping Sophie close, comforting his aching heart with her reassuring warmth. He child murmured and shifted, eyes peeking open and watching Jack curiously. “Nothing but nightmares in the Dreaming these days.”

The Fae nodded in sympathy, flying closer until she could press a small hand to his cheek in apology.

“How long was I asleep,” Jack asked, then realised it was a stupid question, impossible to really tell in this underground maze of a fortress. As he thought, the Fae just shrugged, her eyes darting between Jack and the hall. She motioned at him and pointed off down the corridor.

“Yeah, I think I can walk properly now,” Jack sighed and pushed Sophie to her feet before gripping some of the larger pieces of rubble and hauling himself up.

His muscles protested, but this time more from disuse than the burning pain of a body that had come close to its magical limits. He stumbled, his legs partially numb from the position he’d slept in and Jack leaned his weigh on his staff until he was sure he could stand without crumpling back to the ground.

“Lead on,” Jack breathed, wondering just what he would do if he encountered Pitch. If he was lucky he’d somehow kill the bastard by accidentally stumbling them both off a staircase.

Snorting at his own thoughts, he wondered if he was too emotionally drained to care anymore or had just finally been through too much to be bothered to care. Probably both, he mused dryly as the little Fae zipped off down the hall, Sophie bounding off after it. Jack grit his teeth and followed, wishing his legs didn’t feel like boiled noodles attached to bricks.

In an effort to ignore the dull ache of stiff muscles, Jack glanced about at his surroundings. The little light that sometimes filtered down during daylight hours was long gone. He must have slept for a few hours then. He wondered for a moment why the halls weren’t rampant with nightmares and creepy children on the hunt for him, but shrugged it off as good luck. Other than his first attempt to woo Jack to his cause, Pitch had never bothered to visit Jack in his little cage. He man probably had yet to notice his absence. It was still unnervingly silent in the dark corridors, nothing but the dark shapes of the Faerie and Sophie bouncing along ahead of him.

It seemed to be hundreds of twists and turns, and two staircases up before they came back to Jack’s old prison chamber, the empty cage still broken on the floor, its chain and part of the upper bars swinging slowly from the ceiling. Jack averted his eyes. He didn’t remember much of his escape or subsequent mad dash through the fortress. He didn’t really recall anything after the claws had hit his cage floor, just the whirl of his mind as hysteria and anger closed in.

Jack released a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding as they entered a corridor on the far side of the room and left that room of nightmares behind them. He watched Sophie’s light and easy spirit and scolded himself. If a child could handle being under Pitch’s thrall and remaining in this place even after she had broken it, then he could very well walk through without cringing like a coward.

Squaring his shoulders, he followed them around the next corner and through the door at the far end. And came stumbling to a halt as he found himself at the beginning of a long row of cells. His lips pressed into a thin line as he took in the shivering, sleeping piles of children locked in the first set of cells. He walked farther down the row, each cell revealing more children, some awake and staring with cold, frightened eyes as he passed and not daring to make a peep. Others slept fitfully, curled blanket-less on hard stone.

He had wondered...in a vague way and not very often during his captivity, what exactly Pitch did with his enthralled children when he wasn’t putting them to work. But seeing this was too much and his stomach twisted, eyes burning as some crawled forward when he passed and gripped the bars, all of them eerily silent in their pleading.

It was the last four cells at the end of the row that caught his attention. In the first two, North and Sandy slumbered, both sporting shadowy collars at their throat. Jack swallowed down a sob as he saw the black of his uncle’s hands and wondered just how far the infection had spread up the Sandmage’s arms. In the last cell on the left sat the woman who must be the bird lady Sophie had spoken of, for the woman was indeed a larger version of the hummingbird-esque Faerie that now hovered chirping at her. The cell across from her was deeply shadowed and appeared empty.

“Jack?” the woman inquired, shuffling forward in her prison and Jack saw the torn stubs on her back where she must have once sported the flickering wings of her tiny copy. Jack brushed a hand over his pocket, feeling the hard shapes of the claws within. What other atrocities had Pitch wrought upon his prisoners?

“Yes,” he answered, voice low and rough. “Who are you?”

“Toothiana,” she replied and Jack realized he was standing before the Queen of the Fae. For a moment he wondered if he should bow or make some sort of acknowledgement, but discarded the thought. She was not his queen, and for the moment no one was anything more than a prisoner in this dank, dark, _stupid_ underground heap of stone. “Can you release us?”

Jack stepped forward and crouched to consider the lock. It wasn’t anything particularly impressive or complex in appearance. But as he reach forward a finger, calling up the tiniest amount of magic, shadows rippled in the air and he recoiled.

“No,” Jack mumbled. “At least, not right now. I’m too worn out to pull up enough magic.”

Toothiana sighed and nodded like she had expected as much.

“Perhaps while you recover you should speak with Aster,” she suggested, settling back into her cell and gesturing at the rather empty-looking cell across. “He hasn’t said much since Pitch...well...”

“I know,” Jack snapped, his voice razor-edged, the claws in his pockets weighing like lead. 

He turned away from the sad look Toothiana directed at him and settled against the bars of the opposite cage. This close he could see the lump curled as far into the shadowed corners as it could. 

“Aster,” Jack whispered, nerves tingling anxiously in his limbs and heart crawling up his throat. Three hundred years. Did Aster even...

In the silence that followed Jack wondered if the Pooka was asleep, or even still alive.

“Jack?” the accent whispered over Jack’s ears and his hands shook, eyes burning with the threat of tears.

“Yeah,” Jack mumbled, letting his head fall forward against the bars, fingers clenched around his staff in his lap, skin stretched white over his knuckles.

The dark lump slowly uncoiled and shuffled forward, hissing in pain every now and then. Soon fur was touching his face through the cold metal of the bars, a cold nose pressing against his right cheekbone and whiskers tickling his nose. This time Jack couldn’t hold in his sob and it echoed starkly in the quiet cellblock. Warm, furry fingers landed in his lap and curled around his hand. He could feel the matted stickiness of dried blood and felt the full body flinch that travelled through the Pooka as the injuries were jostled by the action. But Aster continued on until their hands were wrapped together, coaxing Jack’s away from his staff.

Then, for the first time since he had found himself in this Moonless pit with three-hundred-year-old repressed memories taking up space in his skull, Jack felt the burn of tears on his cheeks. Once they started falling there was no stopping them and Jack shook as he sat hand-in-hand and face-to-face with Aster. It was stupid of him, he knew. He should be comforting the Pooka, soothing the pain of torture at Pitch’s hands. Instead he was crying like a child and taking comfort.

The paw around his hand tightened, wet nose pressing more firmly into his cheek and a deep voice starting to hum, the vibrations from it trembling over the skin of his face. 

So Jack cried, for himself and his long-ago lover. For his father and uncle. For the wounded Faerie Queen. And for the hundreds of children in the cages around them who were children no more.


	16. Sweet Memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well looky here, I'm back! From outer space! Or maybe it was just Europe...it might have actually been Europe. But the fact of the matter is that I'm home and back to writing. I will admit that I had to re-read this entire fic just to make sure the chapter made sense. And even then it still feels a little stilted and not much really happens. Except for Sandy-feels...lots and lots of Sandy-feels. 
> 
> Also, looky at all the beautiful kudos and comments people have been leaving me! As a celebration, I'll be writing a one-shot fic for the first person who comments and guesses who the unnamed mystery girl in this chapter. Pairing and prompt of their choice. And if I get twenty comments on this chapter (which is really a form of wishful thinking) I'll do another one-shot for that twentieth commenter.
> 
> Enjoy!

## Chapter Sixteen

It seemed forever and only a moment that Jack knelt on the cold stone floor, face pressed to the metal bars of Aster’s cell, wanting to grip his lover’s hand until his own went numb, but at the same time terrified of causing the Pooka more pain. His tears had eventually dried, leaving sticky, burning tracks on his checks and a puffiness in his eyes. Eyes that were still closed. If he didn’t look at Aster he could pretend in his mind that there was love in the green eyes that had looked at him in contempt all those weeks ago and stared at him with a crazed and confused fervor in the northern camp. He had no guarantee of such an emotion should he open his eyes to reality. It had been three hundred years, after all. Did he even still love the Pooka? Or was it emotions leaking through from all his rediscovered memories. Jack couldn’t be sure.

The furred hand in his finally slipped away, Jack’s fingers twitching compulsively as if to stop them before his mind took over and he let them go. He listened to Aster slip back further into the darkness of the cell before he finally opened his eyes and peered at the dark outline of his once-lover.

“You have to leave, Jack,” Aster said and Jack felt irritation and hurt flare behind his grief. “You need to get out before Pitch returns.”

“What and just leave you all here?” Jack snapped, his voice raw and breaking from crying.

“Won’t do us much good if ya get thrown in here with us,” Aster returned.

“He’s right, Jack,” Toothiana piped up, sounding reluctant to include herself in the budding argument. “If you’re out you at least have a chance of getting to the capital and warning everyone. You can’t take Pitch on alone.”

“I don’t know the way out,” Jack countered, desperate to ignore their logic.

“Take the girl,” North’s deep voice suggested and Jack turned to find him and Sandy awake. “She seems to know this place.”

“Brother...in Us...erees,” Sandy added, struggling to use his time-rusted voice.

“Jamie,” Sophie piped up, looking ecstatic at the suggestion and moving forward to tug at Jack’s sleep. “Up, Jack. Go home.”

“You can’t get us out right now and you can’t risk staying,” Aster whispered, shifting forward and Jack finally met his eyes, the green orbs worried and filled with a stubbornness born from centuries of survival. “We’ll manage. Pitch has us alive for a reason.”

“To get to me,” Jack bit out, glaring at the ground. “He wants me to join him. If I leave...”

“And that explains Toothiana still being alive?” Nick countered. “You have no connection, never met, but still she lives. There is more to Pitch’s plans. Go. Perhaps with us here, you will have better chance of leaving without pursuit.”

Jack growled in frustration, but finally allowed Sophie’s insistent tugging and staggered to his feet.

“Take my Faerie,” Toothiana suggested, allowing the miniature copy of herself to zoom forward and buzz around Jack’s head. “Sophie can get you out of this place, but the little one doesn’t know the way out of the Bogwood.”

Jack nodded and walked out, back past all the imprisoned and blank-faced children, following the sway of golden hair as Sophie jogged ahead on her short legs. For a time, Jack recognized their route as the one they had taken from his room, but instead of winding back to the ruins of his cage, Sophie turned and bounded up a set of narrow steps in a small opening barely visible in the gloom. At the top she slowed and ducked into the remnants of a collapsed passage, peering through a gap into the room beyond. Jack crawled in after her and gaped when he saw what the area beyond contained.

There was a group of the Shadow-possessed children gathered together under a large crack in the ceiling, through which poured a filtered and vaguely green-tinged sunlight. It was wide enough that Jack could see the leafy trees of the Bogwood overhead. It was the first time he’d seen sunlight in what seemed an age. As they watched, Shadow Sand crawled over the bodies of the black-eyed children and formed into grotesque, wing-like shapes. The children pushed up and out of the crack, pseudo-wings beating a small whirl-wind of dust and forest debris off the floor. Once they had disappear, Sophie’s hand caught at Jack’s sleeve and he followed her out into the empty room.

“Out,” Sophie said, eyes bright as she pointed up the way the children had disappeared.

“Uh, I don’t think we can go this way,” Jack said, staring up at the opening. “Don’t exactly have wings.”

Sophie frowned and hopped up and down a couple times, then glared over her shoulder at her wingless back. She pouted and turned her big, gold-green eyes on Jack.

“Up, Jack?” She whispered, pointing again and looking so heartbreakingly desperate that Jack wished he could fly.

And for one long moment, Jack almost smacked himself. Gathering Sophie up in his arms, trying his best to get a good grip on the child while still being able to wield his staff, Jack let out a piercing whistle and whipped his staff in a large arc. The wind swirled up around them and Jack felt the curiously freeing sensation of weightlessness as they soared up through the hole and canopy into the bright blue skies and sunlight of late-morning. The miniature Toothiana buzzed around them in excitement and Sophie shrieked in childish joy, a true laugh spilling from her lips for the first time since Jack had met her.

“Hold on tight!” Jack called over the roiling winds as they were whisked away over the tree tops, the small Fae leading the way.

 

 

It was well after noon when Jack finally set them back on the ground, slumping to sit on the dirt road in exhaustion. They were at the edge of the forest, the gates of Userees before them. Some of the guards and soldiers at the outposts along the wall had spotted their arrival and were shouting amongst each other. As Jack and Sophie approached, the tightly barred gates swung open enough to give passage to a small party of Warrior Mages, flanked by unGifted foot-soldiers.

“Name,” the lead mage demanded as they surrounded Jack and Sophie.

“Jack Overland Frost, Winter Mage,” Jack answered, wondering why such precautions were being taken over a small girl and an underfed mage.

“You came out of the Bogwood,” The man continued, more of a statement than a question, but the look on his face demanded an answer.

“Uh, sort of flew over it, really,” Jack couldn’t help himself. Too many years thieving and dodging any sort of authority begot certain habits.

The leader of the small greeting party glared at him.

“Think you’re funny, do you?” the man spat. “There isn’t time for your attitude these days. I’m tempted to turn you back the way you came.”

“Give me an hour or two and I can just keep on flying,” Jack answered with a shrug and a grin. “But Sophie here has a brother in town that probably wants to see her.”

“Jamie,” Sophie piped up helpfully, hand firmly wrapped around the ragged edge of Jack’s shirt.

“The Bennett boy? Isn’t he the bread baker?” one of the unGifted soldiers murmured to another. “Lost his sister when all the kids went missing.”

“Where did you find her?” the commander asked, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“In Pitch Black’s stronghold,” Jack stated nonchalantly, watching as the soldiers and Warrior Mages flinched, eyes widening. “And I have some seriously important information that needs to reach the capital so...”

The group leader, a tall and gangly Fire Mage, looked ready to spit flames and lightning, but turned and motioned for Jack to follow them back through the gates. 

“You have one day to rest, resupply and reunite the girl with her family,” he stated with the tone of someone who expected obedience without question. “Then you leave for the capital.”

“Done,” Jack agreed, and followed them into the city.

 

 

Jack followed Sophie through the empty streets. The few people outside moved hurriedly to their destination, eyes darting around them and flinching at shadows even in the light of the noon sun. A testament to how much power Pitch had gained in such little time.

The entrance to Bennett’s Breads was dark, the windows smudged like they hadn’t seen a wash cloth in days. Though the scent of fresh bread still clung to the air, it was obvious that the shop hadn’t been open in a while. Sophie wasn’t discouraged by the gloomy air of the shop and snuck along an alley by the side of the building and through a gate into a small, grassy courtyard.

The seven-year-old skipped happily over the grass and up the steps to rap her tiny fist against the door. The windows of the first floor remained dark and Sophie’s blissful smile began to fade. Jack frowned and walked up to cup his hands over a section of window and peer inside. The place was clean for a bakery. Even a diligent baker still managed to have a layer of flour coating the corners of the floor, but it was clean in an eerily deserted way inside Bennett’s Breads.

“If you’re looking for Jamie, he’s gone. Left three days ago,” a voice stated behind them and Jack twitched and spun around to find a tall, strongly built young woman with short hair and rounded cheeks glaring at him.

“Go where?” Sophie asked, quietly coming up beside Jack to grip the hem of his shirt.

“He mentioned the capital,” the girl said with a shrug, one hand coming down to smooth out her skirt. “I think he went to enlist with the army.”

Sophie looked incredibly distressed by the news and her lips trembled dangerously.

“Awe, it’s alright, Soph,” Jack said, quickly crouching down to look her in the eye. “We’re going to the capital anyway. Maybe we’ll catch him up.”

Standing back up, Jack found the strange girl watching him consideringly.

“Is it a good idea to take her with you?” she asked dubiously. “The roads aren’t safe right now. There are nightmares breaking through from the Dreaming all over the place.”

“Well I can’t exactly leave her,” Jack retorted, rolling his eyes.

“She could stay with me, I used to take care of Sophie when Jamie was busy trying to keep the bakery going after their parents died,” the girl offered.

Jack hesitated, considering the suggestion. It would be easier and faster if he only needed his magic to carry himself. He could fly longer and spend less time on the ground dodging danger. One look at Sophie’s distressed face, though, and he knew he couldn’t leave her behind.

“Thanks for the offer, but we’ve made it this far, I can’t just leave her behind now,” Jack replied, taking Sophie’s hand and walking back toward the street.

“Can I at least offer you some food?” the girl sounded irritated and followed doggedly after them. “No offence, but you don’t look in the way to be feeding yourself, let alone a kid.”

Jack paused and sighed. Who was this girl, anyway?

“If you’re offering, then sure,” Jack said with a shrug and turned to follow the girl down the street a couple houses. “But we should be back on the road soon. I want a few hours of daylight in order to find a safe campsite.”

“Fair enough,” the girl allowed, opening her door and leading them into a small kitchen. She began pulling out light travel rations; a loaf of bread and some cheese, a little dried meat to top it off.

She tossed the small sack she’d filled toward them and stalked back off to the front door, opening it to allow them to exit.

“You’re sure you want to take her?” the girl asked once again.

“Yes,” Jack answered firmly. “Thanks for the food.”

The girl hummed and watched them walk away. Jack could feel her eyes on them all the way down the street. The town was still as strangely empty for such a nice afternoon as it had been when they’d first arrived. The guards at the west gate were slightly less on edge than the ones at the eastern wall, but still glared at them uneasily as they passed. Jack sighed in relief when they made no move to stop them.

Jack waited until they were far enough down the road to be out of sight before he crouched down and asked Sophie to climb up on his back. He handed her the travel sack of food.

“Just easier to keep a hold of you while we’re airborn,” he explained as the blond child slung the sack over one shoulder and scrambled to grip his shoulders and waist tightly with her limbs.

One hand wrapped around Sophie’s ankle and the other wielding his staff, Jack took to the skies once more. 

 

 

_There was a loud banging on the door to his room and Sandy let his head fall tiredly to his desk with a despairing thud._

_“Busy!” he called at the knocker, hoping they’d take the hint and leave him to his studies. His Air Mage exams were in a week and his Scrying teacher had assigned them all an essay on the history of scrying techniques on top of all his other readings. Sandy wanted to cry and then sleep for an entire day._

_The banging came again, louder and this time Sandy didn’t reply. He hopped up off his chair (and wasn’t that just great, that his feet still didn’t quite touch the ground when his classmates had no troubles) and retrieved his staff from the corner. One tap of it and a quickly sketched rune on the door and the knocking was muffled into non-existence._

_He exhaled and pushed himself back into his seat, grabbing up his quill and scribbling down some more notes on smoke scrying. Before he could even get two points written, there was a muffled explosion and his room was full of it. Smoke, that is. Sandy coughed and covered his nose, squinting through the smoke and wondering if the Tower was on fire. It had better be, or else he was going to be using the organs of whoever had blasted his door in a practical test on scrying entrails._

_A tall and immensely familiar figure approached calmly through the haze and Sandy felt his anger fade to mild frustration. And the frustration was only because he knew in his bones he could never wish harm on this person._

_“Honestly, Sanderson,” Kozmotis admonished, waving his staff to help dissipate the smoke. “If you stay cooped up in here any long it won’t matter how much you’ve studied, you’ll have atrophied and wouldn’t make the exams anyway.”_

_Sandy rolled his eyes._

_“I told you not to call me that,” Sandy grumbled, turning back to his notes and decidedly_ not _looking at the melted mess where his door lock had been. Honestly, Autumn Mages and their curses. Except, Sandy reminded himself, frowning at his notes, Kozmotis’ robes now bore the intricate embroideries of a Fire Mage because the smug bastard had passed his exams last week. “And unlike_ some _people here, I still have exams in a week.”_

_Kozmotis shrugged an elegant shoulder and turned to walk back out of the room._

_“Suit yourself,” he replied airily. “I supposed I’ll just enjoy this fine Hilearian vintage on my own.”_

_Sandy sputtered for a moment._

_“If you’re going to blast the lock off my door, the least you can do is give me a drink,” Sandy finally managed, stomping over to his tall friend and dragging the laughing man over to his bed._

_They both slumped down and Kozmotis pulled a wineskin from his robes, popped the cap off and took a long swig. Sandy grabbed the proffered drink and slung back a mouthful. It was rich, the red fluid spreading a husky flavour of smoked fruit across his tongue and he sighed in bliss after swallowing._

_“It’s a good one, hmm?” Kozmotis inquired, his amber eyes watching Sandy with an unusual scrutiny._

_Sandy could feel the heat rising in his cheeks even after only one sip and knew that he would wake up with the mother of all headaches come morning. At the moment, he truly didn’t care and took a second swig before handing it back to the dark-haired boy next to him._

_“Yes,” Sandy agreed, slumping comfortably against his friend and smiling as an arm came around his shoulders and squeezed affectionately. “But I thought you didn’t like wine?”_

_“I don’t,” Kozmotis ageed, taking another sip. “But it’s still alcohol.”_

_There was a comfortable pause as the wineskin traded hands again._

_“And I didn’t buy it for myself.”_

Sandy woke from the warmth of the dream to his cold cell in the damp and dark of Pitch’s dungeon. He felt the warm prick of tears at the corner of his eyes. He wondered, what with Pitch’s rising power and dominion over the Dreaming, why he was not having nightmares like the rest of his companions, if their whimpered cries were anything to go by. Perhaps these were his own brand of bad dream. A taunting recollection of happy days that would never be again.

It would make sense. The dreams left him ragged around the edges and full of doubt. At the end, if they ever made it that far, would he be able to stand before Pitch and strike him down as the monster he was, or would he stand down and die, still completely incapable of harming someone who was once so precious?


	17. A Misunderstanding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What, I'm not dead? That's right people, another chapter! Sorry updates have been so slow. And will probably continue to be. I swear I'm actually busy and not just a lazy slob. Well, not entirely a lazy slob.
> 
> And congrats to LadyAquill for being the first to guess Cupcake! You can email me with a prompt for anything and I'll write something for you!

## Chapter Seventeen

Late afternoon sun scattered faintly through the leaves of the tree Jack sprawled beneath, his limbs feeling boneless around him and his head aching. In hindsight, using so much magic and such powerful spells all in one day was usually a bad idea for mages who often practiced their craft. Jack had been at war with his own magic for at least the past hundred years, probably much longer. The memories of his time at the Tower, directly after Binding Pitch were hazy and seemed to come in repeat cycles layered over each other until it was impossible to tell which came first or last or if they were all the same. It was easier not to think on it.

No matter how long it had been, in the end it came back to the same thing: he was seriously rusty in the magic department. He doubted he could even conjure a single flake of snow. His insides felt wrung out, tight and dry. Trying not to focus on how much he ached, Jack focused on the little Faerie flitting through the leaves overhead and Sophie building a castle of grass over a nearby anthill.

He knew he would have to pull himself together and get off the ground sooner rather than later. They needed to find a decent campsite with a good water source before nightfall. The only good thing that had come of him almost burning himself out was that they had cut almost two days of walking off their trip. If they carried a good pace tomorrow and a day or two after that, Jack would hopefully be recovered enough to fly them a little ways for the final days. They could be in Manengrad in just over a week, when the trip normally took two and that with horses.

It was still longer than Jack would like. With each passing hour, the claws in the pocket of his jacket grew heavier. After however long he spent wandering Pitch’s underground fortress, plus the full day of travel they had behind them, Jack doubted their escape had gone unnoticed. And the only ones Pitch could take it out on were the children and prisoners Jack had left behind. What else could Pitch find to tear off in the days that were ahead? Or would the madman put his attention and resources into finding Jack? There was no way to know until he next saw Pitch and Jack would be a liar if he tried to deny he feared that moment. Somewhere deep inside, the part of him that was still the teenager from before the Binding wanted nothing more than to run away, far outside of Manen and into the unknown lands of the east or the icy wasteland of the north. Places so abandoned by life and light that Pitch would never have reason to search.

But green eyes watched him, one set from an anthill nearby, lit with gold swirls. And one in his mind, like moss and spring. Jack would face Pitch again, of this he was certain. But he also knew that he was no stronger than he had been the last war. He had more worldly experience, that was for certain. But his magic and strength had more withered than grown through time and disuse. He felt disconnected from his magical core, as if all the years of suffering under the Binding with his mind and magic fighting each other had damaged him irreparably. And Pitch was back, strong as ever and growing stronger with every passing moment.

Jack sighed and finally forced himself to his wobbly legs.

“Time to go Soph,” he called, watching with a small smile as the little blond skipped away from her ant palace. “We’ve still got a long way to go.”

“Jamie,” Sophie chirped, pointing down the road.

“Yeah,” Jack sighed, taking his first few steps. “Let’s go find Jamie.”

And maybe a miracle, Jack thought wistfully. They needed one.

 

 

Jamie struggled out of the hayloft of the barn a local farmer who hadn’t yet abandoned his remote lands for the relative safety of a village had let him use for shelter. Sometime in the night he must have rolled into a crack between the bales he had used as a mattress. His back and legs were cramped from being held in awkward positions. His clothing was dirt covered and reeked of sweat, his hair was clumped, and his skin sticky. For a long moment, he considered turning around and heading back to the familiarity of his bakery, where he would be covered in sweat and caked in flour, but still had a good wash and warm bed to look forward to each and every night.

Instead, he shoved the reverie away and dug out a half-stale roll and some cheese from his pack for breakfast. He couldn’t return to Userees until he was a soldier, capable of fighting the monsters that had stolen away his sister. He would be ten times the warrior than those useless soldiers the capital had sent to their aid. And most of them unGifted, too. How were they supposed to fight Nightmares without the aid of Warrior Mages? Only five had come in with the regular soldiers.

With an angry kick to an unassuming pile of loose hay, Jamie swallowed the last of his mediocre breakfast and clambered down from the loft. Outside the barn, the day was dawning dreary and grey. He clouds hung low, dark patches threatening rain and Jamie dropped his pack to pull out the oiled coat that had belonged to his father. In his mind, the old scent of past autumn rains and the sweat of hard working man still lingered in the aged leather. He stood a moment in the dull morning light, sniffing at the edges of the hood that rested lightly beside his cheeks until a distant roll of thunder pulled him from old memories.

Making his way back across the farmland to the road, Jamie squinted at the sky, trying to determine what time of morning it was. He had the itching feeling that it was later than it should be. He had slept too long. On the road, he took up a brisk pace, not slowing even when the clouds finally broke and rain poured down in a torrent that was more a sheet than individual drops.

As the day progressed, it grew darker, the clouds thickening as the storm swept over, bringing more rain and lightning. Unusual weather for midsummer, Jamie mused, glaring at the sky and wrenching his boot up out of the sucking mud-river that the road had become. He wouldn’t make it far today, no matter how he pushed himself. Might as well be a full day of travel lost. Frustration burned at the corners of his eyes and Jamie focused intently on the farthest point of the road he could make out through the rain. He would not cry and tantrum like a child.

Ahead, shadow flashed in the rain. Trees, blurred and dark through the watery haze. He was coming up on a forest. There had been nothing but farms and fields as far as he had been able to see when he had stopped the day before. Perhaps he was making more progress than it seemed through the muck and wet. Encouraged by the thought, and by the shelter of branches ahead, Jamie picked up his pace into a light trot, heedless of the mud that sprayed with each step.

 

 

Jack tugged wet fingers through soaked hair for the umpteenth time that day and swore under his breath. It would figure that the worst storm of the summer would hit when he was miles away from any shelter with bare feet and nothing but his tattered shirt and coat. Not that he had to worry about being cold and damp. His magic would protect him from getting sick this way. Sophie, on the other hand, shivered miserably, tucking herself close and practically wrapping her tiny body around Jack’s leg in a bid for warmth and small shelter from the weather.

“We’ll stop as soon as we find a town, Soph,” Jack promised, lifting the edge of his dripping jacket over her head in a bid to keep some of the rain off.

The little Faerie had squirmed down into the collar of Jack’s shirt as soon as the first drops had started to fall. But she too was now soaked, huddled between the curve of his neck and the hollow of his collar bone and shivering with every gust of wind. A flash lit up the sky and Jack counted silently under his breath until the boom of thunder echoed over them. The sound came sooner than the last had. The storm was moving toward them rather than past. At least the trees would keep the lightning from being a danger to them.

If his memory served him right, though (not that it usually did), there should be a village at the far edge of the forest. He kept the information to himself. No point in giving potentially false hope. Jack cursed Pitch under his breath. If this had occurred even as little as a month ago, before the Binding had broken, Jack would know for certain whether the village was there or not. Now, with his head a mess of memories from past and present colliding, he couldn’t figure out if his memory of the village was one of Jack St. North or of Jack Frost. He was caught somewhere between two distinctly different people. 

Another flash and a peal of thunder, louder than any before. Sophie squealed in fright and huddled closer to his leg, effectively hanging from him and abruptly stopping their advance.

“C’mon, Soph, it’s just a bit of thunder,” Jack sighed, trying to sound more reassuring than aggravated. “We’ve got to keep moving if we want to get out of this rain.”

“Hide, Jack,” Sophie insisted, tugging him toward the trees and off the muddy road. 

“We can’t hide from thunder in a forest,” Jack replied, digging his feet into the ground and wincing as mud squelched through his toes and slid underneath his heels. “We need to find a town or a farm.”

“No, hide!” Sophie wailed, her green eyes wide and the golden streaks glowing more brightly than ever with her fear.

Jack opened his mouth, a sharp retort on the tip of his tongue and his temper frayed from the long hours of discomfort. It never came. Both the mage and child turned to peer back into the rain as a voice came from behind them.

“Sophie?”

 

 

It was a relief to be under the half-shelter of the trees. Jamie walked as close to the edge of the road as he could without having to dodge bushes and saplings. The branches of the largest trees kept off some of the rain and he was still fairly dry beneath his father’s large coat. His legs, from the knees down, were a lost cause though, and he was sure he’d never get his boots clean. His cloth travel sack, though made to withstand most weather, had been no match for this storm. With each step he took, he could feel water sloshing around in it. There would be no dry change of clothes waiting for him at the end of the day. And he would have to toss the last of his bread rolls, if they hadn’t already disintegrated into wet, doughy sludge.

It had been, all in all, a terrible day from start to finish, and he still had no idea where that finish would be. He had a vague concept of the road he was on from maps. It would be at least another week and a half for him to walk. There were a few towns and villages along the road, but having never left Userees before in his short life, Jamie was unsure of the exact distances between them. He could only hope that he would pass through some of them in the afternoon to late evening so he could stop for the night. It would be just his luck to hit each and every one in the late morning and have to press on and sleep on the road instead of staying in a bed.

Especially tonight, Jamie mused, looking up at the storm that had only grown over the day and showed no signs of wearing itself out. At least the forest offered a partial respite. It did, however, add an air of extra gloom. Where it had been dreary out with fields in every direction, at least there had been more light around. The trees and the shadows beneath them seemed to suck in the little daylight that filtered through the clouds. Jamie had lost the little sense of time he’d had after entering the trees. It could be noon or supper time for all he knew. His stomach grumbled at the thought of mealtimes, reminding the teen that he hadn’t stopped for lunch in an effort to make up for the slow pace the rain and mud restricted him to.

Glaring up the road, Jamie paused and squinted at a slight irregularity in the grey curtain falling around him. Two figures, one much taller than the other wavered through the rain. Other travellers on a day like this? Jamie felt his stomach tighten and his limbs tense as instincts went on high alert. No one would be out in this if they had any other choice. On the other hand, it could indicate that there was shelter nearby. A village if he was lucky.

Deciding to take the chance, Jamie picked up his pace. As he approached, he noticed that neither person was dressed for the weather, both wearing nothing more than summer dress that had seen better days. The short one was a small child, a girl by the looks, and her companion a thin and frail figure. Possibly the child’s grandfather, judging by the white hair plastered close to the man’s scalp and the curved, shepherd’s crook walking stick. Not a threatening pair and the clothing further gave Jamie hope that they were near a village. Who would be out dressed so improperly if they had a long way to walk?

A loud crack of thunder split the soft patter of rain and the girl wailed in fright and clung to her companion. The voice that came next was a surprise, too young for that of an old man.

“C’mon, Soph, it’s just a bit of thunder. We’ve got to keep moving if we want to get out of this rain.”

Jamie paused, the name sending a spear of hurt through his chest. It would figure that he would find a little girl named Sophie while he was still miles and months away from being able to search for his sister.

“Hide, Jack.”

Jamie almost sat down where he stood. That voice. And now that he bothered to look, the hair was wet but obviously blond. Cut just like Sophie’s had been, but more tangled and dirty than Jamie had ever let it get. He felt a surge of anger at this Jack person.

“We can’t hide from thunder in a forest. We need to find a town or a farm.”

Couldn’t he see his sister was scared? Jamie took a few steps closer to the pair, fists clenched at his side as anger, disbelief, and hope warred painfully in his chest.

“No, hide!” 

Sophie had never been scared of thunder before a small part of Jamie’s brained insisted. And Sophie was missing with the other children, not wandering along willingly with some strange boy. Still, he told himself, it’s worth a try.

“Sophie?” Jamie called, his voice cracking around a thick ball of terror and hope.

The girl turned and Jamie was staring into bright green eyes and a wonderfully familiar face.

“Jamie!” she cried out, releasing the stranger and running up to him. He crouched in order to meet her little body and wrap her up safe in his arms.

“Sophie,” he repeated, mind stuck as if in a dream. Was this real? He pulled back to look down into her round little face and frowned when he saw the strangeness in her eyes.

He stood abruptly, leaving Sophie clinging to his legs.

“You,” he snarled, a hand coming up to point accusingly at the white-haired youth now watching them. “What did you do to my sister!”

“I didn’t do anything!” The other boy, Jack, said with indignation colouring his voice. “Except get her away from Pitch Black. You’re welcome.”

Jamie laughed hollowly.

“From who? Some old nightmare from stupid stories?” Did this boy actually think he could blame a long dead Nightmare for his sister’s disappearance? “What did you do with the others?”

“Are you serious?” The white-haired boy closed his eyes in apparent frustration.

Neither noticed when the next boom of thunder faded, but didn’t seem to abate. Nor that the mud and water on the road shook with the continued rumbling.

“Hide!” Sophie cried out, trying to pull out of her brother’s grip and make a dash for the woods.

“You stay back!” Jamie screamed, eyes wide as Jack took a step toward them. Sophie started to cry by his feet and he shifted his grip from her shoulder to the back of her head, pulling her closer to his body.

Or he tried to. But as soon as his grip loosened she tore away and ran into the trees. 

“Sophie!” he yelled, ignoring the identical cry that came from the other youth.

Before either of them could start after her, the rumbling grew to a peak and dark figures on horses came streaming out of the rain around them. As the riders circled them, Jamie picked out the rain-dampened uniform of Manen’s army. When the horses came to a stop, two of the cloaked figures dismounted and came toward them. Both bore the sigil of a Warrior Mage, one the blaze of a Fire Mage, the other the silver curls of Water.

“Bad day to be travelling,” the Water Mage said, his voice clipped as dark eyes observed them from under the cover of a rain cloak. 

“Even for a Mage,” the other mused, nodding at Jack and Jamie glared even harder at the other boy. A mage would be more than capable of perpetrating the odd sickness and disappearances in Userees.

“Heading for the capital,” the white-haired mage replied, his grip on his staff tight. “The eastern borders aren’t safe right now.”

“Hmm, too right,” the Fire Mage agreed, her eyes narrowed at them from under her hood. “But more dangerous still in a bad storm like this.”

Jack shrugged noncommittally and glanced around at the horses effectively penning them in.

“Be safer with this Shadow Mage off it,” Jamie accused loudly, watching with satisfaction as the soldiers around him tensed and Jack stared at him in horror. 

“I’m no Shadow Mage,” Jack insisted and Jamie sneered at him. “Just a wandering Winter.”

“Winter Mages don’t wander in the summer,” the Water Mage mused. “They bunk down somewhere and wait for their magic to return.”

“I don’t have anywhere to stay! I’m not a Shadow Mage. I’m travelling to the capital with information.”

“You’re not doing yourself any favours, carrying on like this,” the Water Mage said, voice crisply cutting off anything else the mage might have said.

It was clear the Warrior Mages weren’t stupid, Jamie smiled, relief pooling in his gut. He pulled in his breath for his final accusation.

“This mage is the one responsible for the disappearances in Userees,” Jamie announced, his anger flaring. “I caught him here with my sister, one of the missing children.”

“And where is your sister now?” demanded one of the soldiers still on his horse.

“She ran into the forest just before your arrival,” Jamie answered. “Give me a moment to search for her and I can prove it.”

The two Mages shared a long glance.

“Very well,” the Fire Mage allowed, motioning Jamie off to the woods. “We’ll have two soldiers accompany you.”

Two soldiers dismounted and flanked Jamie toward the darkened cover of the trees. As he walked, he heard one last trade between Jack and the Warrior Mages.

“I’m not responsible for any of that!”

“You’re saying the boy won’t be coming back with his sister?”

“No, he will, but – ”

“Arrest him, already. This is beyond us. We’ll need to take them all back to the capital to stand a proper trial.”

 

 

Sophie hadn’t run far. Jamie found her crouched in the branches of a small tree.

“Come on down, Sophie, you’re safe now,” Jamie said softly, beckoning to her with slow movements.

“Where Jack?” his sister asked, looking around and eying the soldiers with distrust.

“Don’t worry, the soldiers have him,” Jamie assured her. “He won’t hurt you anymore.”

“Not hurt,” Sophie murmured, slipping down from the tree. “Jack safe?”

“Yeah, he’s no danger anymore. The Mages are going to take him back to Manengrad to stand trial.”

Sophie took a step back and glared at him, her head shaking swiftly in denial.

“No.”

“Sophie, please,” Jamie sighed, taking a step toward his recalcitrant sister. He understood she was probably traumatised from the past few weeks, but he needed to get them out of this forest.

“No!” she yelled, stumbling back, eyes wide and fearful. One of the soldiers shifted closer.

“Is everything – ” 

The man’s query was cut off abruptly at the same time as a warm, thick liquid coated the side of Jamie’s body. He heard the second soldier shout her alarm, but the substance had splashed across his eyes and was near impossible to wipe away. Some dripped over his lips and the taste of hot metal stained his tongue. His hands trembled and knees gave out, arms reaching desperately for Sophie.

Blood.


	18. The Trial (Part One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, a new chapter! I'm working a new job and it's been taking up more of my time and energy than I had originally anticipated. I wish I could say updates will come faster, but I honestly just don't know. On the bright side, we are nearing the grand finale of this story. Only a few chapters left! Nothing much but plot building in this one.

## Chapter Eighteen

It was dark when Jamie woke, and cold. Not unusual circumstances during his last few days on the road. He grimaced and tried to remember where he had made camp. It had been raining so hard all day, but he was dry so he must have found –

Jamie sat up abruptly. Or tried to. His head hit a something hard with a resounding clang of bone on metal. He collapsed once more and opened his eyes, rubbing at the bump already swelling on his forehead. Squinting he made out the metal ceiling panel he had managed to head butt. A cursory glance around had him rolling out of the dismal upper cot of a bunk bed and scrambling toward the bars spanning the cell door. A light at the end of the corridor outside showed an empty guard post.

He blinked and squinted back into the dark of the cell, his eyelashes sticking together irritably. Brushing a hand across his face, Jamie felt the drag of grime caked to his face and the memories tumbled back. Running into the forest after Sophie, the screaming guards, blood everywhere. He prodded his own body warily, but found nothing more serious than some bruising. As his eyes adjusted, he found the Shadow Mage from before, with the strange white hair asleep on the bottom cot of the bunk. Other than that, the room had a dented pot to serve as a toilet. No Sophie.

Jamie pressed his face back to the bars, squinting against the dim light of the far off guard post in an effort to see into the darkness of neighbouring cells. Dim figures lounged on floors and other beds. The entire place reeked of old urine and sweat. A jail of some sort, though he didn’t know where. 

Pushing himself away from the bars, Jamie stalked back across the small cell and pulled the mage from his bed.

 

 

Jack woke to the pain of hitting a cold floor. For one terrible moment after opening his eyes, he thought he was back in Pitch’s subterranean lair. But the flickering light from beyond the cell bars, coupled with the shabby bunk suggested otherwise. As did the boy looming over him in the dark cell. Sophie’s brother, Jamie, who had put them in this whole mess to start with.

Jack scowled and sat up.

“Where are we?” Jamie demanded as Jack sat himself down on his bunk and started working kinks out of his muscles.

“How should I know?” Jack grumbled, eyes wandering the room and noting its barrenness. His staff was nowhere to be seen, but that was hardly surprising.

“You’re a – ”

“Shadow Mage,” Jack finished lamely, glowering back at the boy. “Thanks for that, nothing like being arrested on baseless charges.”

“Baseless!” Jamie shouted, rage written across his features. “My sister comes down with some Shadow born disease, disappears, and then shows up weeks later with you!”

“Well, obviously I’m a Shadow Mage, then,” Jack snapped already beyond finished with the conversation. He was sore, tired, and had gone from one prison right into another. He had friends and family whose lives depended on him. Aster...

His throat closed as he thought of his one-time lover. Curling up on the ratty cot that was still far better than the hanging cage Pitch had put him in, Jack wrapped his arms around himself and did his best to ignore the anger filled silence stewing at his back.

 

 

Some time later – hours or minutes, it was hard to tell with no windows – Jack heard the rattle of keys at the door to their cell. Jamie vaulted off the top bunk like someone had lit a fire up there and raced over to the door.

“There’s been some kind of mistake,” the kid blurted out, a frantic edge to his tone. Jack wanted to tell the kid to shut up. He had been in his share of prisons and the guards never listened to that kind of thing. “I wasn’t involved in this. You can’t keep me here with this guy!”

The guard raised a hand and Jack realised what was about to happen a split second before the hand came down hard backhand across Jamie’s face. Jack winced in sympathy. The kid might be a mouthy, assuming brat, but that was overly harsh. And if they were treating them this harshly before even a hearing, something very serious was going on and they were going to be blamed for it.

“You think you’re the first lying worm we’ve had here try that line?” the guard asked, his tone worrying light. “Come quietly to your hearing, now, and we’ll see just what you are or aren’t involved in.”

“My sister! Where is sh – ”

Another backhand, this one snapping hard and echoing down the hall, and Jamie was on the ground, braced by shaking arms. Jack rose from the cot.

“How about you stop beating potentially innocent people and take us to our Moon-damned hearing,” Jack snapped, hauling Jamie up by his armpits.

The guard sneered, but they were cuffed by the mage that had hovered unseen a few steps behind the guard and prodded down the hall and into a large room. The Council of Magi was seated in full number around them, with the High Mages at a central dais. The only member not present was the Archmage himself and Jack felt his stomach clench. This was beyond simple Shadow Mage charges...

“State your names for the council,” a young mage with the marks of the Water School adorning his robes. Too young to be a council member, but obviously highly ranking in the mage clerks recording the hearing.

“Jamie Bennett,” a small voice came from Jack’s left and he looked over to see Jamie had already started swelling and purpling in his cheeks. “I’m a baker from Userees,” the kid finished, staring flatly at the High Mages. Apparently he had finally realised how much trouble they were in.

“Jack Frost, Winter Mage,” Jack stated, ignoring the furious glare Jamie shot at him. “No permanent location.”

“You have been brought before the council for the murder of four soldiers and one War Mage, the summoning or a Nightmare, use of Shadow Magic, kidnapping, and possible involvement in the death of the Archmage,” the Water Mage continued. With each charge Jack felt more and more out of his depths. “How do you wish to plead?”

“Not guilty,” Jamie and Jack declared in unison.

“I request a trial by truth spell,” Jack said, ignoring the muttering that crossed the council. Truth spells were tricky, required multiple mages working in unison. It was also considered a violation of the rights of the accused to be utilised without request. But at a trial of this magnitude, he doubted they would deny him.

“Jamie Bennett, do you agree to the use of a truth spell upon your person?” the Water Mage inquired.

Jamie was silent, his face white as chalk. For a brief moment, his eyes flicked over and locked with Jack’s. The boy looked terrified and for a long moment Jack worried that Jamie would say no and they would have to talk their way out. But the boy nodded.

“We require verbal consent,” the mage said, tone verging on irritation.

“I agree to the use of a truth spell,” Jamie replied, voice wavering and pained.

“Very well,” the High Fire Mage said, standing from his seat among the other High Mages. “You will be returned to your cell for the night. This trial will reconvene in the morning when we have completed requirements for the spell.”

“Can I see my sister?” Jamie blurted out and the High Mage turned his gaze on Jamie.

“The young child brought in with you?” The High Mage said, his tone implying that no answer was necessary. “Rest assured that she is being cared for. The charges laid on you, however, deny you any visitation rights from civilians.”

Jamie looked like he might protest and Jack shifted until he could elbow the other boy in the ribs. Jamie coughed and Jack leaned over.

“If you want to avoid more bruises, you’ll keep your mouth shut,” he hissed in the brunette’s ear as the other glared at him. “As far as everyone in this room is concerned we’re guilty.”

Jamie looked like he wanted to protest, but the guards were at their sides again and pushing them back toward the doors they had entered through. To Jack’s relief, his cellmate kept his mouth shut until they were back in their cell, where he proceeded to curl up in his bunk and ignore Jack entirely.  
Jack flung himself into his own bunk and tried to sleep. It would at least pass the time.

 

 

_The fog lay thick across the Bogwood, muffling the sounds of soldiers and mages moving about in the dark. The flickering lights from the fires was muted and Jack shivered as the cool moisture clung to his clothes. It was moments like these that made him miss his warm, comfortable rooms back at the Tower. More than once he had daydreamed about giving up and returning to them._

_But he was past the point of no return. Leaving now would be desertion and the war was going poorly enough that such charges would lead to a lengthy prison sentence. And he would have to face his father as a coward and a failed War Mage. He had come not only to fight for Manen, but to prove that even a lowly Winter Mage could be a warrior. His magic may be unpredictable and weak at best, but it was useful. If it was the last thing he did he was going to show how useful a mage he could be. Not everything was about power._

_Jack was pulled from his miserable thoughts by a commotion over at the camp borders. Several soldiers sprinted away from the perimeter only to return less than a minute later trailed by the highest ranking War Mages in the camp. Either there was a major threat on hand, or someone important had arrived. Since no one else was mobilising and most just looked either confused or vaguely curious, Jack assumed the latter._

_Standing up from his seat, he wandered off to another fire in search of information. Seating himself beside another lower ranked War Mage, Jack listened in on the camp gossip._

_“Just arrived,” one mage, a Fire School, muttered to another. “Must be worse than we thought if the High Mages are leaving the Tower. And here I thought things were looking up.”_

_Others murmured in agreement, dark looks haunting their eyes._

_“Who arrived?” Jack asked in a low whisper to the War Mage next to him._

_“High Earth Mage,” the other answered in equally hushed tones. “Rumour is he’s here to work in the weapon forge. Maybe we’ll stop loosing half our soldiers every time we send out patrols.”_

_Jack barely managed to nod and grunt out a low sounds of agreement. His father, here in this camp out of all the encampments in this stupid swamp. The question was not whether his father knew he was here, but how long he could avoid the man in such close quarters._

_“Moonlight, man, the news is more good than bad,” the other laughed, slinging a friendly arm around Jack’s shoulders. “You look like Pitch himself just got invited to dinner.”_

_Jack forced himself to relax and laugh at the joke._

_“Yeah, you’re right,” Jack said, hoping his cheer didn’t sound too forced. “Can only get better from here.”_

_His seat-mate grinned and opened his mouth. Before the reply could come out, the other’s expression changed and all the mages around the fire jumped up and saluted stiffly. Jack rose and turned, already knowing what he would find at his back._

_“Jack,” Nicholas St. North said, his voice cracking as they looked at each other._

_“Dad,” Jack choked, ignoring the gasps from around the fire._

_He stood and stared at his father, unsure of what would be considered proper in this situation. Nicholas decided for him, stepping forward and sweeping Jack into a tight hug._

Jack woke in his stale bunk and swept a hand across suspiciously damp eyes. He fervently hoped morning was not far off. He needed out of this cell. 


End file.
